


Playmakers

by bellagerantalii



Series: The Gameplan Series [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Domestic, F/M, Homophobic Language, M/M, Racist Language, Team as Family, Wedding Planning, rated for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-04 19:38:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11561955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellagerantalii/pseuds/bellagerantalii
Summary: Job changes, family drama, coming out, marriage, bigotry... It's what Jack signed up for, right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I decided to write a second part to my earlier story "The Gameplan"! Again, this is going to be three chapters over three weeks. Most of it is fluff, but I love me some angst, so there's some angst, too.
> 
> Also, this first chapter does include some racist language, specifically at the Bittle Family 4th of July Barbecue. There are no racial slurs used, but there is a discussion about racist behaviors. One of the reasons I started writing this series is because I have first-hand experience with southern relatives reacting to a family member coming out, and to a family member marrying someone who isn't white, so I wanted to try and portray the kind of subtle ways homophobia, racism, and family loyalty overlap and feed each other in Southern white middle and upper middle class environments. Obviously, not all Southerners are racist or homophobic, and not all Yankees (or Americans, or Canadians) are totally enlightened. 
> 
> That being said if you don't want to read that part, feel free to skip from "Moomaw’s letting her grandchildren show their fiancées off?” to "I'm not running." Again, no slurs are used, but Sarah does try to fill Jack in on something Bittle isn't sure how to talk about.

Jack is on his third glass of champagne. Third plus what he drank out of the Cup, so that’s… many drinks. It is many drinks. And maybe he should have listened to Bits and tried to build up his tolerance once the postseason started, but that would _jinxing it_. Plus putting alcohol into his usually very dry body right when he needs it to not die on him is probably a bad idea. So obviously Jack is right about this, even if Bits is the one who’s normally right. Bits is normally right except when he doesn’t want to study. But Bits hasn’t needed to study for two years now. Bits was the one who said the Falcs would win it all _again_ this year and it may not be quite back-to-back championships, but they won the Stanley Cup again and Bits said that they would and Bits always believes and--

“Zimmboni!” Tater yells, pressing a glass of something into Jack’s hand. “You looking spaced out there. Drink some of this.” Tater is slurring his words even as he knocks down a shot of what is probably vodka. Russians and their vodka. Jack looks at the glass in his hand. It’s tall, and filled with a clear liquid, but it doesn’t smell like vodka and oh it’s water, Jack realizes as he takes a sip. 

He takes another for good measure.

“You are drinking, but your eyes still so big,” Tater says, wrapping a huge arm around Jack’s neck. “You are looking at B, yes?” 

Jack realizes that he is, in fact, staring at Bits, who is holding holding forth just off the center of the room and surrounded by Snowy, Georgia, and three of the rookies and their partners. He’s holding a glass of champagne in one hand and the other is animating whatever point he’s trying to make. His cheeks are a rosy pink and his ears are red and his hair looks just like gold in this light and Jack thinks maybe he can hear his accent getting more pronounced with each sip he takes. 

“Tater,” Jack turns and fixes Tater with what he hopes is a serious look, because he is deadly serious about this. “I need to marry him.” 

“You needed to marry him yesterday. When is wedding?”

Jack’s eyes go wider. “I don’t _know_. I haven’t asked him.”

Tater closes his eyes and holds up one index finger in an obvious “wait a moment,” unhooks his arm from Jack’s neck, speeds off in the direction of the open bar, and returns a minute later with two more glasses of champagne. He hands one to Jack.

“Zimmboni,” he begins, “You and I are both knowing Eric Bittle. Eric Bittle will say yes, and then you will get married on day Eric Bittle decides. But tonight you ask him because only thing that make this night better is you knowing you get to become Mr. Eric Bittle’s Husband.”

“Yes,” Jack replies, because _Tater is totally getting this_.

“You go to your Bittle. I will distract everyone,” Tater says, holding up his glass.

“За любовь!” he cries, clinking his glass to Jack’s. They both take deep sips.

Determination set in his eyes, Jack strides across the room, making his way to Bittle, Tater on his heels. He gets up next to Bittle and deftly wraps an arm around his boyfriend’s waist. 

Smooth, Zimmermann, very smooth. 

Bittle leans into the touch without interrupting his story, which is one of the many episodes in the Jam Saga. Jack’s heard this one before, but it’s one of the ones he finds most funny. Out of the corner of his eye Jack notices Tater, who listens attentively until Bitty reaches the conclusion of his story.

As soon as he does, and as soon as the rookies have had time to gasp appropriately, Tater springs into action.

“Andy,” he says, addressing the 5’11” former Peace Corps volunteer who also happens to be the wife of the Falcs’ best rookie defenseman. “You were Russian major in college, yes?”

“ _Da_ ,” Andy says, smiling.

“I teach you things your fancy professors never taught. Tonight you learn how real Russian drinks and celebrates.”

Tater grabs Andy’s hand, and pulls her off to the bar. Andy’s husband, Mikey, follows behind, calmly sipping his champagne. The other rookies follow their pack leaders, and Snowy follows after them, getting his phone out of his pocket to capture the event for posterity. 

Only Georgia is left, but she gives Jack and Bittle a knowing look and sigh, and goes to talk to someone else.

“Enjoying yourself, sweetpea?” Bits asks, his voice sticky and sweet like honey. 

“Mmhmmm,” Jack says, leaning down to kiss Bittle on the cheek. His skin is soft and warm and glowing and it is Jack’s favorite thing. “You setting the rookies straight on the proper way to make jam?” He means it to be a chirp, but he can’t really help that there’s no force behind it.

“I can’t help it if they’re interested,” Bittle says, taking a long sip of champagne. He looks at the now-empty glass like it’s personally offended him. 

“We have somebody driving us home tonight, right?” he asks Jack.

“Yep. We just have to call whenever we’re ready.”

“Good. Because if Tater and Andy have moved on to vodka, I want a mint julep,” Bits says, moving out of Jack’s grasp towards the bar. Jack whines, though he swears he doesn’t mean to.

“Honey,” Bits says, moving back into Jack’s reach. “It’s just for a minute. I’ll even let you hold my hand on the way to the bar.” Bits’ grin is wicked and teasing and Jack loves him _so damn much._

“Biiittttsss,” is all that Jack can manage to say.

“Jaaaccckk.”

“Bits.”

“Jack,” Bittle replies, lowering his eyes and shaking his head. 

“Bits. When are you gonna let me marry you?” 

Bittle’s eyes snap open, and his cheeks get even rosier. A huge grin spreads over his face.

“Honey, you know I’d marry you in a heartbeat, but I thought we’d decided to wait a couple of years,” Bittle says, patting Jack’s cheek affectionately but still smiling at him.

“Yes, but consider this:” Jack says, getting ready to make Points. “One, You were right about us winning the Cup again this year. Two, you were right that I should have built up my alcohol tolerance over the postseason. Three, you love me so much. Four, I love you so much. Five, I could take you out to dinner all the time. Six, I can make a really good pie lattice now. Seven, the only thing that would make this night better is if I got to become Mr. Eric Richard Bittle’s Husband and--”

“One condition,” Bittle says, holding his index finger up to Jack’s lips. 

“Anything. As long as it’s not wait too much longer.” 

“You ask me properly. I expect a ring, Mr. Zimmermann, because I certainly have one for you,” Bittle says, his voice quieter but his smile brighter than ever.

“Yes,” Jack says, and leans down kiss Bittle.

He half expects the rest of the team to wolf whistle or something, but Tater’s plan has worked-- everyone at the party is distracted by Tater and Andy trying to out-toast each other in slurred Russian.

“I need a mint julep if I’m gonna watch Tater and Andy make such fools of themselves. I need to be at least as far gone as you so that I don’t try and stop them.”

“I’m so far gone on _you_ ,” Jack says, because he has had many drinks and it is so, so true.

Bittle snorts, but pulls Jack down into a kiss.

 

A week later, Jack has it planned perfectly. He doesn’t have practice today, so after his morning run he comes home and gets to work. Bits’ apple pie recipe card perched on the counter in front of him, Jack reads and re-reads the directions, and makes two batches of pie crust dough, just to be safe. His lattice work has come a long way since that food class he and Bittle took all those years ago, but sometimes his finished project is still less than ideal. True, it’ll never measure up to Bits’ practiced hand, but Jack can get close.

When the pie is assembled, he waits to put it in the oven. It needs to be warm when Bits gets home around six thirty. While he waits, he takes out the plastic stencil he made with Tater’s 3-D printer (don’t ask why Tater has one), and sifts powdered sugar over it. 

At 5:00, he puts the pie in the oven. At 6:00, Jack lifts the stencil off of the counter and puts the hot pie on a trivet next to the writing left behind. At 6:30 on the nose, Bittle walks through the front door. Hearing the sound of the key in the lock, Jack bounds down the stairs. He greets Bittle with their usual kiss, wrapping his arms around Bittle’s shoulders as he toes his oxfords off. Admittedly, this position makes it a little hard for Bittle to do that, much less take off his messenger bag, so Jack reluctantly lets him go.

“Did you bake today? It smells delicious,” Bits asks, walking up the stairs.

“I’m enjoying my off-season diet,” Jack says, following him. “I was thinking we could just have it for dinner.”

“What, and skip my protein? I think even you--”

Bittle stops mid-sentence at the sight of an apple pie with perfect lattice work sitting on the counter. One of their ceramic pie birds sits in its center, and delicately perched on its beak is a thick black ring with a single diamond set in it. On the counter next to the pie, “Marry Me?” is written out in perfect letters with confectioner’s sugar.

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann!” Bittle cries, his hand going to his mouth and he takes in the sight. 

“You said I had to ask you properly,” Jack says, reaching around Bittle to lift the ring from its perch. “I’ll get down on one knee if you want me to.”

“Don’t you dare,” Bittle says, tears in his eyes as he stands on his toes to kiss Jack.

“I guess that’s a yes, then?” Jack says, running his thumb against Bittle’s jaw. 

“Of course it is. Took you long enough. I thought I was going to beat you to it,” he says, reaching his right hand into his pocket to take out a small black velvet box. He opens it up and reveals a ring that looks remarkably like the one on the pie bird, if a little larger. 

Now they’re both crying as Bits slides the ring onto Jack’s left hand, and as Jack does the same for Eric.

Later, before they turn the lights out in their bedroom, Bittle lifts Jack’s left hand up against his so he can admire the rings.

“I’m so glad we decided to get a matching set.”

 

“HELL YES. COME HERE YOU TWO!” Shitty cries when Jack and Bitty tell him. He jumps up from his seat, and wraps one arm around Jack, and the other around Bitty. “I knew you said you were going to wait, but really, we all knew that wouldn’t last.”

“We had a pool,” Lardo says, offering Jack and Bitty a fistbump each once Shitty releases them. “Holster’s going to to pissed. He bet you’d come back engaged after your Turks and Caicos trip next month.”

“Will there ever be a time where y’all stop betting on me and Jack’s romantic milestones?” Bitty asks, rolls his eyes but smiling.

“Probably not. But when did you guys actually get engaged? We need to know. For science.”

“Well, he asked me twice,” Bitty begins. “The first time was at the Falc’s victory party, but he was on the wrong side of tipsy-”

“I was drunk,” Jack admits.

“So I told him he had to do it properly. And a week later,” Bitty continues, pulling out his phone and opening his photos app, “I came home to this.”

Lardo and Shitty look at the picture of the pie, ring, and confectioner’s sugar. Lardo smiles.

“Zimmermann, that is the sappiest shit I’ve ever seen.”

Jack smiles, but he really is very proud of himself, however sappy the finished result may be.

“Nothing but the best from my Jack-o,” Shitty says. “I’m going to be your best man, right? Because I will fight Tater for that spot. Unless you wanted Tater or something,” Shitty says, obviously trying to hide the apprehension in his voice. “”Cause it’s your day and everything, and-”

“Yeah I’m picking Tater,” Jack says.

He’s trying to make a joke, Shitty looks like he’s about to cry.

“Shits, of course you’re going to be my best man. I can’t imagine picking anyone else,” Jack says quickly. “I was trying for a joke there but--”

“Don’t you EVER joke about something like that, Zimmermann!” Shitty cries, launching himself across the table and into Jack’s arms. 

Jack’s view is obstructed by a lap full of Shitty (at least he isn’t naked?), and he’s so busy assuring Shitty that they are indeed best bros that he almost misses the ensuing exchange between Bits and Lardo.

“And Lardo, I would be honored if you would be my best woman,” Bitty says, ignoring the very loud Shitty and quieter Jack next to him. 

“Bitty. Of course. I’m honored,” Lardo says, taking a sip of her coffee. “I am so here for helping you plan a wedding. And for keeping my idiot boyfriend in line.”

“I WILL BE THE BEST BEST MAN EVER. JUST YOU SEE,” Shitty says, turning to face Bitty and Lardo from his place on Jack’s lap. 

Everyone laughs, and Shitty eventually removes himself from Jack’s lap to resume breakfast. Shitty and Lardo are down in Providence for the weekend, and they, Jack, and Bittle are gathered around the table on the balcony, sitting in their pajamas and eating pancakes. The heat of the New England summer is pleasant, especially with the soft breeze coming from the river. 

“So you guys set a date yet?” Lardo asks once Shitty has calmed down.

“Next year’s postseason, probably early July.” Bitty says sipping his iced coffee. 

“Sweet. Where?”

“My parents’ back yard,” Jack answers, “It’s private and still large enough to fit everyone.” Not to mention they won’t have to deal with booking a location and risking it leaking to the media. He and Bits are planning a reveal that relies on secrecy.

“Are you guys inviting a lot of people?” Shitty asks.

“Between our families, the Samwell team, the Falconers, Bits’ rec league team, and our other friends, it’s going to add up, but we’re capping it at 75.”

“That’s nothing compared to the size of my cousins’ weddings, though,” Bittle adds. “Laura had more than twice that many at her ceremony last year.”

“So are you guys planning on coming out before that?” Shitty asks.

“Well,” Jack begins. “We’ve talked with George and Falcs PR about how we’ve wanted to come out.”

“But we really don’t want to be planning a wedding with a lot of media attention focused on us. That’s just too stressful,” Bittle adds.

“So not until afterwards?” Lardo asks.

“Jack will post a picture from our honeymoon on his instagram a couple of days after we leave.”

“Where are you planning on going?”

“Madrid, and then somewhere with a beach where people don’t care about hockey.”

“And you’re going to watch the madness unfold at an undisclosed location?”

“We sure are. It’s going to be the biggest thing to happen on the internet since Beyonce dropped ‘Formation.’”

 

Jack and Bittle’s first half of the summer is busy. The Falcs won the Cup in early June, and things didn’t slow down until Jack and Bittle were preparing to head down to Madison for July 4th weekend. A week later, they’re going to Turks and Caicos for a week for some sun and some sand.

Jack would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous about this Georgia trip, though.

It won’t be their first Madison Fourth of July as a couple, per se, but it’ll be the first one where they’re out. The first one where they’re not stealing kisses in Bittle’s room after everyone else has gone to bed.

Well, actually, they’ll still probably have to do that.

“So everyone in my family _knows_ now,” Bittle says as he places a carefully folded shirt into his suitcase. “But just because they know, doesn’t mean they want to see.”

“So even though we’re all but out,” Jack begins, looking at the shirts in his closet, “And engaged, and inviting them all to the wedding next year, I still can’t kiss you in public?” He thinks he’ll take one of his light blue button downs, just in case. 

“We’re inviting everyone, but only a few of them will actually come. That’s how the guest list will stay under 75. Make sure to take some of your tank tops, too.”

“Bits, that’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard.”

“That I’m making you pack tank tops? If Taylor Ann is going to refuse to come to my wedding, at least let me lord my professional hockey player fiance over her. You’re just her type,” Bits says, playfully squeezing Jack’s bicep.

“Bits,” Jack says, catching Bittle by the wrist as he moves his hand away. “Why are we even inviting them, then?”

“Because it’s polite to invite them. Not inviting them would be looking for a fight.”

“But they’re not coming, isn’t that starting a fight?”

“Not if we don’t rise to it. They’ll get their chance to express their disapproval without making a scene, and we won’t be any the worse off,” Bittle says, a smile that’s only a little forced creeping onto his face. “And besides, my parents, Moomaw, Aunt Judy, Uncle Scott, and my cousin Sarah are all coming, and they’re really all that matter.”

“So they won’t be coming to the wedding, and we basically have to act like we’re just friends the entire weekend?”

“Well…. Somewhere between friends and ‘engaged but waiting for marriage,’” Bittle says, an more genuine smile creeping onto his face, “Moomaw was scandalized that Jeff and his wife Lisa kissed for more than a few seconds at their engagement party, and the two of them are extremely straight.”

“So don’t bring being queer to their attention, and don’t scandalize Moomaw,” Jack concedes. He hates it, but if it’s what Bittle wants, he can deal with it. Still, he’s happy they’ll be spending Christmas in Montreal again this year. Once they cross the threshold of his parents’ house, he and Bittle are never not touching. 

“How’s your dad been?” Jack asks, taking his button down shirt off the hanger and moving to the dresser. If Bits wants him to wear tank tops, he can absolutely wear tank tops.

“He’s been fine,” Bittle says, smartly folding a pair of pants. It took Coach Bittle longer than Suzanne to warm up to Bittle’s sexuality, and while he and Bits are back to talking, there’s still a halting, stilted tone to their conversations. Usually they just exchange pleasantries and talk about football at the tail end of Suzanne and Bits’ phone calls. Coach rarely makes an appearance when Bittle and Jack skype with Suzanne together. 

“Are we going to be allowed to sleep in the same bed?” 

“Honestly, I don’t know. That’s up to Mama as much as it’s up to Coach.”

“And if I was a girl…”

“Then we _definitely_ wouldn’t be allowed to sleep in the same bed,” Bittle says. “You’d be on the couch downstairs.”

“Not the guest room?” Jack asks, throwing a couple of tank tops near his suitcase.

“Absolutely not. My bedroom and the guest bedroom are on the same floor. Mama wouldn’t have you sneaking into my bedroom while she and Coach were sleeping in their room downstairs.”

“Not that we could get up to much in your bed,” Jack says, walking around to where Bittle is carefully placing socks and underwear in his own suitcase. He rests his head on Bittle’s shoulder, turning to whisper in his ear. “Remember the first time I came and visited you? Half the time one of us was falling off.”

“I _do_ remember, Mr. Zimmermann. But if you think we’re going to get any farther than that, even if we do share a bed, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Then we’d better make the most of the time before we go, eh?” Jack whispers, ghosting kisses along Bits’ neck. “If we’re both wearing shorts and tanktops and we won’t be able to touch each other for a whole weekend…”

Bittle practically throws their suitcases off the bed.

 

Madison is… different, this time. Instead of Bits picking him up in his dad’s truck at the Atlanta airport, they fly in together and rent a sedan. There’s no stopping behind random fast food places between Atlanta and Madison, no Bits tentatively climbing into his lap. Instead Bits flicks through radio stations, trying to find something, anything, that isn’t country music. Eventually he settles on a classic rock station that probably plays more Lynyrd Skynyrd than is strictly necessary.

Just before they cross the town line into Madison, however, Bits pulls off the road and drives behind an abandoned warehouse. He puts the car in park, unbuckles his seatbelt, and turns to face Jack. Jack presses his own seatbelt release with a satisfying click.

“I don’t know how much Mama and Coach’ll wanna put up with,” Bits says, taking Jack’s face in his hands. “So I’m going to kiss you real good right now, just in case I don’t get a chance to later.”

Jack leans in, and in no time at all his lips are meeting Bittle’s. Their kiss is sweet, open mouthed and somehow just a little bit desperate. Jack pushes in, taking one hand to cup Bittle’s face and another to rest on his arm. 

Neither of them deepens the kiss. That would just lead to Bittle straddling Jack’s lap in the backseat and hickies they don’t have scarves or concealer to cover.

After a few moments, they gently pull away. Jack gives Bittle a last, lingering forehead kiss.

“I love you, Bits,” he says.

“I love you too, Jack.”

 

As soon as they pull into the driveway of the Bittle home, Suzanne bursts out of the front door.

“Well y’all made good time!” she cries, pulling Bits into a tight hug as soon as he’s out of the car. “How was your flight?”

“We slept through most of it,” Bittle admits. “I think we passed out right after takeoff.”

“It’s been a busy summer,” Jack adds, coming around to the driver’s side of the car. Suzanne stands on her tiptoes to pull him into a hug. As she does this, Jack notices Coach Bittle cautiously come out onto the front porch.

“I’ll bet! It’s not every summer you win a Stanley Cup!”

“Only every other summer,” Bittle says, smiling fondly. Then his back straightens, and he turns to face his father.

“Hiya, Coach,” he says, holding out his arms. Coach pulls his son into a tight, if brief, hug.

“Hey, Junior,” Coach says, releasing his son. He turns to Jack next, and offers his hand. “Y’all have any problems at the airport?”

“We have TSA precheck,” Jack says, shaking Coach’s hand firmly. “So we sailed right on through.”

“Don’t think we fly enough to get that,” Coach says. Jack can’t tell if it’s a simple remark or some sort of condemnation. 

“It makes Jack’s life a lot easier, even if the Falconers fly charter most of the time,” Bits says, pressing the button on the car remote to pop the trunk. “And we only took carry-ons, so no need to wait at the baggage claim.”

Jack and Bittle get their bags out of the trunk, and follow Suzanne and Coach into the house. It’s been scrubbed clean, and Jack suspects Suzanne submits her house to the same pre-guests ablution that Bits does. They drop their bags by the door, as Suzanne has made a peach cobbler that’s just the right temperature to eat fresh. It’s sitting on the kitchen table next to a huge pitcher of sweet tea. They each get a heaping serving and a tall glass, and progress back to the screened-in porch that overlooks the backyard. He and Bits settle on two chairs next to each other, and if Suzanne and Coach notice how they keep their feet touching, they don’t comment.

Bittle and Suzanne chatter while Jack pretends to like sweet tea. He’s sipped down half of his glass by the time Suzanne demands a play-by-play of the Stanley Cup finals.

Jack obliges, gratefully setting aside the sweet tea. He talks about how he was afraid that Marty might’ve been out with an injury, but the team doctors cleared him just in time. He describes one of his more beautiful assists to Thirdy, and the goal in Game 2 he’s especially proud of. Bittle cuts into elaborate once or twice, pretending to fan himself with his hand when Jack brings up a nasty check in Game 4.

“That was an illegal check,” Coach adds, speaking for the first time since they gathered on the porch. “That Schooners player went for your head.”

“That’s what I said!” Bitty cries, indignant. “The refs didn’t call it!”

“It happens,” Jack says, shrugging his shoulders. “And Tater got him with a perfectly legal check a few minutes later.”

“Thank god for Tater. Goodness knows he’ll look out for you, even if you don’t look out for yourself.”

They move on from hockey, and Jack listens to Suzanne’s latest church bake sale rivalry. As the sun gets lower in the sky, Suzanne eventually sets her empty glass down on her empty cobbler plate.

“Well I need to get started on dinner if we want to eat before seven,” she says “Why don’t you two go upstairs and unpack? Jack, I’ve set you up in the guest room.”

“Actually, Mama, Jack and I were wondering if we could both sleep in the guest room tonight?” Bittle asks. Beneath the tentativeness in his voice, Jack can hear a shit eating grin coming. 

Suzanne smiles, but doesn’t seem phased. “You know the rules, Dicky. I don’t see rings on your fingers.”

“Well you see, we took them off when we landed in Atlanta,” Bittle says, reaching into his pocket and taking out a plain canvas bag. Jack is torn between watching Bittle’s fingers open the bag, Suzanne’s eyes getting wide, and Coach Bittle’s unreadable expression. “We didn’t know if Judy would be here, and we wanted you and Daddy to be the first to know.” Bittle takes the larger ring out of the bag and places it on the ring finger of Jack’s waiting hand. Jack snatches the bag before Bits can take his own ring out, and reverently places the ring on his smaller finger.

“We’re officially engaged,” Jack says, taking Bits’ hand and smiling out at Suzanne and Coach.

No one says anything for a moment, but then Suzanne leaps out of her chair.

“Congratulations! I knew it! I knew you wouldn’t be able to wait much longer!” she cries, pulling Jack and Bits up into a crushing hug. For such a small woman, her arms have an impressive reach. 

“What happened to make you move it all up?” Coach asks. He’s standing now. He doesn’t join the group hug, but he does offer Jack his hand again. Jack shakes it enthusiastically, and Bittle does the same when his dad offers his hand to him. His smile is tight, but at least it’s there.

“That’s my fault,” Jack readily admits. “I may have proposed after my fourth glass of champagne at our victory party. Bits said yes, but told me I had to do it properly.”

“And it took him _forever_ ,” Bits adds, beaming up at Jack. “I thought I was going to beat him to it, honestly.”

“When’s the wedding?” Suzanne asks, vibrating with excitement. Jack’s glad to see her so excited about this, so on board. She’s come a long way in the past two years.

“Next July, after playoffs,” Bittle says. “We’re planning on having it in Bob and Alicia’s backyard in Montreal, so the poor Canadians won’t melt down here.”

“Ooh, and we’ve never been to Canada! Does Alicia know yet? Can I call her?!”

“Please do. She’s been waiting to hear from you ever since we told her last week.”

“I’ll give her a call while you two go unpack upstairs. I guess you both can stay in the guest room.”

“Thanks, Mama,” Bittle says, giving her another tight hug. Suzanne slips out of her son’s embrace, and goes to wrap Jack up again.

“Welcome to the family, Jack!”

 

Suzanne is still busy talking to Alicia by the time Jack and Bittle finish unpacking, so Bits starts preparing dinner, and Jack falls into his well-loved role of sous chef. Coach isn’t in the kitchen, but Jack enjoys listening to Suzanne gush about how happy she is that their sons are done waiting.

“We need to talk about guest lists,” she says as Bittle takes the last of the bacon out of the frying pan. “What family members are you inviting? We have a lot of--”

“We’re capping the guest list at 75, Mama,” Bittle says, blotting at the greasy bacon with a paper towel. “And Jack and I get final approval.”

“Oh, but Dicky--”

“We’re trying to keep it quiet. Neither of us wants a huge wedding, and we don’t want it leaking and distracting from the Falconer’s season.”

“But who would leak it?”

Bittle just gives his mom a look. Realization passes over Suzanne’s face, and she doesn’t bring up guest lists again.

Once they’re all seated around the kitchen table, to questions start up again.

“We haven’t gotten too far in the planning yet,” Bittle says before he takes his first bite of his BLT. “We know we’re having it in Montreal, and we know we want to keep it relatively small.”

“We have decided where we’re going to go on our honeymoon, though,” Jack says. 

“Where are you going?”

“We’ll fly from Montreal to Madrid, spend a couple of days there, and then go to Ibiza. Museums and history tours for Jack, and beaches for me.”

“That sounds like quite a trip!” 

“Yeah, we’ll be gone about two weeks. Hopefully the worst of the media circus will be over by then,” Jack adds, popping a cucumber slice in his mouth.

“The media circus for the Cup? Don’t you think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself?” Coach asks.

“Um, the media circus about us getting married,” Jack says. “I’m not officially out yet. Everyone on the Falcs knows about me and Bits, but coming out before we’re actually married, and dealing with that on top of a regular hockey season and wedding planning… It would be a lot of stress, and I don’t want it to be that stressful.”

“He’s going to post a photo on Instagram to announce it once we’re in Spain,” Eric says. 

“Isn’t that going to be hard on your PR people?” Suzanne asks.

“As George keeps reminding me, that’s what they’re paid to do. And anyway,” Jack says, snaking his arm around Bittle’s waist. “I want to keep Bits to myself for a little longer.”

 

“That went off better than I expected,” Bittle says later. He and Jack are spooned together on the double bed in the guest room. They’ve folded the quilt and put it on the chair so just the top sheet is covering them. Even with the air conditioner on, and the fan above their heads going full blast, the hot, sticky Georgia night has managed to creep inside.

“You think so?” 

“Mama’s excited, and Coach isn’t outwardly disapproving,” Bittle says, moving closer.

“Can I ask you something, Bits?”

“Sure, honey, anything you want.”

“... Why do you call him ‘Coach’?”

Jack can feel Bittle tense in his arms.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay. I’m not judging, I’m just… curious.”

“I guess I started when he was coaching my rec league football team,” Bittle says quietly. “I had to call him ‘Coach’ at practice, and so I guess I just carried on with it once I got home.”

Jack can tell Bittle isn’t quite finished yet, so he plants a kiss at the base of his neck, and then a couple in his hair, and waits.

“And maybe I felt bad, once I stopped mid-season, and he never told me to stop calling him Coach. And then there was the utility closet incident. So.. I guess that’s why.”

“Hmmm,” is all Jack replies. 

“You think I should stop calling him that?”

“He’s your dad, Bits. He’s not your coach. I think it’d be good if you both remembered that”

 

The next day is July third, and Bittle and his mom spend almost the entire day in the kitchen. Jack helps out for the first part of the day, but after he has to reform a pie crust one time too many, Bits hands him a beer, kisses him on the cheek, and tells him to go read the book he brought with him. 

Jack goes upstairs to get it from their bedroom, but before he can rummage through his backpack to find it, he spots Mr. Bittle going out to the shed in the back. Leaving his beer on the nightstand, Jack goes back downstairs and out the back door. In the yard, Mr. Bittle is taking stacks of folding chairs out of the shed.

“Anything I can help with?” Jack asks, walking up to the shed door. 

Mr. Bittle studies him for a moment.

“Suzanne and Junior kick you out of the kitchen?”

“I messed up a pie crust.”

“I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did. You can help me take the folding chairs and tables out.”

That work is in silence in a few moments.

“We need to hose everything off next. They get dusty in the shed.”

“Right.”

Mr. Bittle unwinds the hose and screws the nozzle on while Jack opens up each of the chairs and tables. As soon as he’s out of the way, Mr. Bittle starts spraying.

“Does Canada have an independence day?” he eventually asks.

“Yes, sir. We celebrate it on July first.”

Mr. Bittle noticeably balks at the “sir.”

“You can call me Eric, son,” he says. “What do y’all do to celebrate?”

“Pretty much the same as American Fourth of July. Fireworks, parades, cookouts.”

“Uh huh.”

There’s another few minutes of awkward silence.

“So how does it work?”

Jack is caught off guard. There could be… so many things that Eric is asking. And usually when people ask like that they want to know how gay sex works and Jack really doesn’t want to go into that with his father-in-law. But maybe he wants to know about how Canada is technically independent, but still part of the British Commonwealth? Or how Quebec feels about Canada Day?

“How does what work?” he eventually gets out.

“What’s usually done for names? When, hmph, when two men get married.”

“Well, I think everyone does it differently,” Jack begins, glad that’s all that’s being asked of him. “But we decided we’re going to hyphenate on official forms and stuff. And we’re getting married in Quebec, and both parties keep their names there,” he chuckles a bit. “But our kids are going to be stuck with Zimmermann-Bittle. They’re going to hate us.”

“So you can have kids then?”

“I mean, yes. We’ve talked about it and we both want them. Not any time soon, probably when I’m closer to retirement.”

“And you would adopt?”

“That’s one option. We could also get a surrogate and an egg donor. We’re not making any decisions now.”

“But the kids would have Bittle in their name?”

“Of course.”

This seems to satisfy Eric. He and Jack spend the rest of the afternoon arranging tables and chairs in the backyard. There’s some hockey talk mixed in, and Jack does his best to talk about football when it comes up. Jack’s problem is that while he has passing familiarity with NFL teams, he knows next to nothing about college or high school football.

“Would’ve thought Junior’d given you a crash course on Georgia football at least,” Eric remarks.

“He’s tried. It’s just that hockey and football seasons overlap. I can get into a mode, I guess. There’s not a lot of room for other sports.”

Jack is relieved when Eric announces that they’re finished. The two of them avoid the kitchen for the rest of the afternoon, though. They both end up in the living room, where Eric watches a golf tournament on the tv while Jack works through his book. Bittle appears around four pm, and Jack snakes his arm around his waist to pull him next to him on the couch. 

“You get everything prepped?” he asks.

“Yep. All we’ll need to do tomorrow are the hamburgers and hot dogs. And maybe one or two more pies.”

“You ever think you may be overdoing it on the pie?” Eric asks.

“Never!” says Bittle, gasping dramatically. “How can you have too much pie?”

“Your daddy doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Suzanne says from the doorway. “Now turn that golf off so we can watch that latest superhero movie. I need you to explain it to me, Dickie.”

 

July 4th dawns sunny and hot, and when he first wakes up Jack momentarily entertains the thought of suggesting he and Bittle not fall asleep cuddled up together like they usually do. Then Bittle nestles back into him in his sleep, and Jack decides that it’s only for one more night. He can manage.

Still, he gets up a few minutes later, shoves on his workout clothes and running shoes, and ventures outside. He didn’t run yesterday, and lifting plastic folding chairs isn’t exactly his idea of a workout. 

He eventually runs four miles, and the neighborhood is just beginning to stir as Jack runs the last few blocks to the Bittle home. He stretches in the driveway, then tiptoes back upstairs, where he showers and brushes his teeth. Bittle still isn’t awake when he’s done, so he slips back into bed and tries not to wake him.

It doesn’t work.

“Mmm. Morning, honey,” Bittle says, stirring when Jack’s head hits the pillow.

“I didn’t mean to wake you, sorry,” Jack whispers, flicking at Bittle’s cowlick.

“Need to get up soon anyway. Stuff to do.”

“It can wait a little longer,” Jack says, wrapping his arm over Bittle and snuggling closer. Bittle falls back to sleep soon after.

 

They do manage to get up and dressed, and they join Suzanne and Eric Senior in the kitchen for coffee cake. Jack takes a small slice for himself, because he isn’t rude, but supplements it with an orange and a protein shake. Once the party gets started, there won’t be anything on his diet plan in sight.

Suzanne takes over putting up the decorations in the backyard--- red white and blue bunting on the buffet tables, paper table clothes in the same colors on all the others. Eric sets up the cornhole game, and Jack and Bittle finish up the last two pies. They’re blueberry, so Jack snaps a picture with his phone and sends it to Tater. He shows Tater’s all-caps, almost gibberish response to Bittle, who laughs, takes Jack’s phone, and assures Tater that he’ll make him one once they’re all back in Providence. 

At noon, the guests start to arrive.

First to show up is Aunt Judy, one of Suzanne’s sisters (and whose jam recipe Bittle follows), along with Scott, her husband, her daughter Sarah, and Bittle’s Moomaw.

“What’s this I hear about you two getting engaged?” Moomaw says as soon as her walker is over the threshold.

Bittle holds up his left hand to show everyone the ring, so Jack holds up his, too. 

“Well aren’t those just so _modern_. I knew our Dickie’d get snatched up real quick,” she says, nodding her approval. “Unlike this girl here, who doesn’t seem interested in anyone.”

Sarah, Bittle’s favorite cousin, rolls her eyes.

“We can’t all have Eric’s luck, Meemaw,” she says. “But I figure if Eric can snag the guy who’s on the cover of this year’s _Body Issue_ , my odds must be pretty good. Congratulations, you two,” she says, wrapping Eric up in a hug and then standing on her tiptoes to hug Jack. It doesn’t help much. She’s even shorter than Bittle, so her arms end up around Jack’s waist.

“You saw that?” Jack asks, blushing.

“I mean, yeah. I even brought a copy for you to sign,” she says, patting her bag and winking salaciously. “And in return for me not pestering you with invasive questions about the photoshoot, I want to be introduced to Fitzgerald next time I visit you two.”

“Poots? Why?” 

“He seems adorably befuddled all the time. I dig it.”

“Sarah Jane, we can introduce you to a horde of hockey players who actually deserve you. Poots is sweet, but he’s not the brightest bulb.”

“Yeah I kinda suspected that. I just want him for his body.”

“Sarah Jane Phelps!” Aunt Judy cries. 

“I get it from Aunt Connie,” Sarah says. Aunt Judy, probably wisely, chooses to ignore this comment.

“Welcome to the family, Jack,” she says, warmly embracing him. Scott follows close behind to offer another warm hug. “When’s the wedding?”

“Next July, up in Montreal.”

“Ooh that’ll be a fun trip,” Judy says. 

“You know you’re not allowed to cater your own wedding, right, Eric?” Sarah says.

“Now who ever said I couldn’t?” Bittle retorts.

“Me. And probably your handsome fiance here.”

Bittle whips around to Jack. “Honey, you’ll let me cater our wedding, right?”

“I uh…. We’re going for less stress, right?”

“That’s a ‘no,’ Eric,” Sarah says. “Although I’m not sure if Jack has the heart to tell you outright.”

At this point they’re all called to help begin the final phase of preparations, and Jack is (momentarily) saved from talking Bits out of making the food.

Relatives begin to trickle in in groups. Eric Senior's sister, Valerie, arrives with her family (husband Mike, kids Laura, Jeff, and Jeremy, Laura’s husband Beau, and Jeff’s wife Lisa), followed by Eric and Valerie's father, then Suzanne’s sister Connie (and husband Drew, children Andrew Jr, Zak, and Taylor Ann, and Zak’s fiancée Savannah). Jack’s met everyone in this second wave before, except for Savannah. Last time he was here he actually enjoyed chatting with Valerie, and once Connie got over her initial embarrassment over meeting her teenage crush’s child, she regaled him with stories about Judy and Suzanne’s baking feuds. 

This time, though, no one’s nearly as warm. When Bittle reintroduces Jack to each successive group as his fiancé, there are no hugs, no congratulations on their engagement. Andrew Jr gives Jack an awkward handshake, but no one welcomes him to the family. No one asks them for details. 

At this point Jack dashes upstairs to grab his camera, and when he comes back down with it slung around his neck, most people look at it like an interloper, even though Scott has a small digital camera out, and all of the cousins have their cell phones in their hands or in their pockets. 

By now, everyone has migrated to the backyard, and the gate is thrown open, a signal for any other guests to just come on back when they arrive. Jack is sure he’s going to have to meet more people soon, but right now Bittle is helping Eric Sr. put hamburgers and hot dogs on the grill, so Jack fishes a bottle of water from the bottom of the cooler. He fishes another one out when Sarah tries to mime for another one from across the yard.

“Thanks, Jack,” she says, taking the wet bottle from him. She’s just set down a massive bowl of potato salad on the buffet table. “Let’s go to the porch. I want to stay in the shade for as long as I can.”

The porch is deserted when they get up there, and they retreat to the very back, taking advantage of the little shade the house throws.

“So Eric doesn’t know, but he’s bound to realize,” Sarah begins, taking a pull from her bottle. “That pretty much none of the extended family is coming today.”

“This isn’t the extended family?” Jack asks.

“You remember last time you were here. Our moms’ cousins, Meemaw’s brother, his kids and grandkids, some of Uncle Eric's cousins, some of Taylor Ann’s other cousins. They all usually come.”

“And they’re not coming this year because I’m here.”

“It’s not your fault. Or Eric’s. But yeah. Suzanne and Uncle Eric haven’t exactly publicized that their only child is gay as the day is long, but it’s been ‘Dickie and Jack’ for the past year or so from her, so people guessed.”

“I’m just glad she thinks of us as ‘Dickie and Jack,’” Jack says honestly. His own extended family is small-- he’s never been surrounded by second cousins and great aunts and uncles the way Bits is. Seeking their approval just seems... Odd.

“Yeah, especially after that whole mess when he first came out. So she’s on board, and Uncle Eric'll be, too, eventually. And me and my parents, obviously. And Meemaw.”

“And everyone else?”

“Meemaw flat out told Connie that she couldn’t miss this. That Eric had just as much right to show you off as Zak does Savannah,” Sarah says, glancing over to where Zak casually has his arm wrapped around his fiancée’s waist. 

“Moomaw’s letting her grandchildren show their fiancées off?”

“Well, showing off for Moomaw. Wearing rings and light PDA,” Sarah says, laughing as she does. “I don’t think they’ll end up going to your wedding, but they’re not going to cause a scene here or anything.”

“How considerate of them.”

“Heh. And I don’t think Valerie and her crowd will come, either. I think she’s here under some misguided attempt to support Uncle Eric. And their dad is nearly senile and not well enough to travel farther than the VA hospital, anyway.”

“Would they come if I wasn’t here?”

“Probably. As long as they don’t have to see it. It’s kind of like how Valerie’s sister-in-law is married to a black guy. Jackson never comes to family gatherings, and they don’t have kids, so it’s easier to not to mention,” Sarah shifts her stance, and looks uncomfortable. 

“Excuse me?”

“I only know because they live in Nashville, and I ran into them outside a bar once. They fed me all the time after that, Jackson's a great cook.” Sarah just graduated last year from Vanderbilt. 

“And I thought this was messed up,” Jack says, taking a pull from his water. “And Bittle knows all of this?”

Jack is somewhat astonished. Bittle's never told him about this.

“Eric found out about Jackson in high school, by accident, like me. Uncle Eric told him not to spread it around. Your Eric's not racist, but he does try and be a dutiful son.”

“I wish he had told me earlier,” Jack admits. “Not that I’ve never encountered racism or homophobia before, but… A lot of the things he doesn’t say make sense now.”

And so do a lot of the fears he _has_ expressed.

“And I wouldn’t even be telling you this, except for one huge reason.” Sarah continues. “Eric is the bravest person I know. If he’s going through all of this, even if our family does desperately need some enlightenment on certain issues, you better make damn sure you’re worth it.”

Jack nearly spits out the water he just gulped down.

“Are you giving me a shovel talk?” he asks in amazement.

“Yep. And I’m also giving you the chance to run far, far away.”

“I’m not running,” Jack says, resolute. “I’m marrying Bits. I’ve wanted to marry him since his senior year. You’re going to have to do better than that if you want to scare me off.”

“Good answer. Now, what do you say we go get your fiancé and make Taylor Ann jealous and uncomfortable?”

 

Jack thinks he’s going to be very satisfied with the pictures he’s taken today. He took a couple of Bittle at the grill, some of Bittle and Moomaw, Bittle with potato salad on his nose, Bittle laughing with a family friend who was one of his campers years ago. Bittle side-eyeing a church lady’s plate of cookies. 

Sometimes Jack wonders how the hell he didn’t realize he was in love with him until graduation.

He gets some non-Bittle shots, too. He catches Zak and Savannah by accident in a quiet moment, looking into each others eyes with soft expressions on their faces. 

Bittle introduces him to everyone. Sometimes explicitly as “my fiancé, Jack,” sometimes less so, just as “Jack,” but most people notice the matching rings they’re wearing. The ones that don’t comment avoid Bittle and Jack for the rest of the afternoon.

The party starts to wrap up right before dusk, as everyone disperses to go find a spot to watch Madison’s firework display.

“I’m taking these two and going up to Shaddock’s Hill,” Sarah announces to the assembled Bittle-Phelps-Donohue-Donaldson extended family, draping her arms over Jack and Bittle, who are both seated with last plates of pie. “Any of the cousins want to come with?”

All the cousins give their excuses, one by one.

“Alrighty, then. Jack, you’re driving. I’m just on the wrong side of tipsy and so is Eric.”

“I shouldn’t have had that last Mike’s,” Bittle says, groaning a little. 

“Uncle Eric, can we take your truck? There’ll be room in the bed for all of us.”

“Keys are in the usual place,” Eric Sr. says, leaning back in his chair. “Just come back prepared to help clean up.”

“Can do,” Jack says, rising out of his chair. He and Bittle follow Sarah back into the house. Bittle grabs blankets and sleeping bags from the linen closet, and in no time at all Jack is backing the truck out of the driveway, Bittle in the passenger seat next to Sarah him, and Sarah scrunched up in the tiny backseat of the cab.

Shaddock’s hill is a little ways out of town, and Jack hasn’t been since the first Fourth of July he spent in Madison, so Bittle has to give him directions. Eventually they make it, and it’s just as deserted as it was four years ago. Jack parks the truck at the top of the hill, and the three of them layer blankets and sleeping bags over the hard metal of the bed.

“Oh my god, just kiss already,” Sarah says after Bittle “accidentally” brushes up against Jack again. Both of them laugh, and Jack leans over to kiss Bits properly for the first time since they woke up that morning.

“You guys are sickeningly cute,” she says when they break apart. “Just get married already.”

“We’re going to need every single one of the next twelve months to plan this wedding,” Bittle says. 

“And this way we can make sure the Falcs can all come. If we’d gotten married this summer, one of my groomsmen would have been in Russia,” Jack adds.

“Well since you two are already living in sin, I guess it doesn’t matter too much. When does planning start?”

“Once we get back from Turks and Caicos in a couple of weeks,” Bittle replies, sitting up so his back leans against the side of the truck. Jack slides up next to him, and Bittle stuffs rolled up sleeping bags behind them to support their backs.

“See. This is why you need to introduce me to Poots. I, too, want to go to Turks and Caicos, but I do not have a handsome NHL star wrapped around my finger.”

“We’ll set you up with someone who’s not Poots, honey,” Bittle says. Just as he does the first rocket shoots up into the sky, and explodes in a red boom over Madison.

“‘MURICA” Sarah shouts.

“Happy Independence Day, Bits,” Jack says softly, wrapping his arm around Bittle.

“Happy Independence Day, sweetie,” Bittle says back, stretching up to give him another kiss.

When they pull back from each other to the sound of more fireworks exploding, Sarah is very assiduously looking up at the colored bursts, and not at Bittle and Jack.

“Seriously. Get married already.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are with chapter number two! I'll get the third and final chapter out next week. 
> 
> I'm also currently working on a WWII AU, so that's next after I wrap this fic up.... probably. I'm going a little research crazy, so actual writing is on hold until I can find out what codewords Canadian paratroopers used on D-Day.

Of course, everything happens at once.

“We’re downsizing,” Bittle says one evening in August. Bittle’s company closes early on Fridays in the summer, so Jack isn’t exactly surprised to find him home at three o’clock on a Friday afternoon. He is surprised to find literally every flat single surface in the kitchen covered in brownies and bars. This is worse than the infamous MLK Quiche Weekend. And the Preserves Spring of 2016. 

“Kitchen Table Books? The new CEO is reorganizing things, right?” Jack asks. It’s the cookbook company Bittle’s been working for since he graduated. He just had his two year anniversary there a few months ago.

“Are you worried about your job?” Jack asks. Baking massive amounts of food is Bits’ first step in processing. Jack usually lets him bake, and then they talk it out. 

“Not exactly,” Bittle says, pouring warm chocolate frosting over his buttermilk brownies. “I think I’ll be fine.”

“If they know what’s good for them, then they’ll keep you on the team,” Jack says, and it’s the truth. Bittle started out as an editorial assistant, but he’s so damn passionate and _capable_ when he puts his mind to it that his bosses started to give him more and more responsibilities, and finally promoted him to an assistant editor position in January. Even without a degree from a culinary school, he’s an asset to the team.

“But that’s not what’s bothering you,” Jack continues.

Bittle sighs, setting down his saucepan and spreading the icing over the brownies with a large, flat knife. 

“It’s just… It’s forced me to think about moving things up,” he admits.

“Moving what up?”

“I love my job, but I don’t want to be there forever. I want to create recipes, not edit them,” he says, bringing just the right amount of icing to the corners of the pan. 

“Your vlog has been doing really well, right? You have advertisers now,” Jack points out, opening the fridge to find a bottle of gatorade.

“It has. And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Bittle finishes icing the brownies, puts the knife in the sink, and reaches for a glass of wine on the breakfast bar. “It’s making a profit, but it’s nothing compared to the salary I’m getting at Kitchen Table.” 

Bittle takes a sip of wine, and Jack waits for him to finish.

“But… I think it could? A lot of my users have been clamoring for me to write a book, which I couldn’t really do while I was working at KTB… conflict of interest and all. But I’ve made some contacts at other publishers, and Mika-- you remember Mika, the literary agent from New York?-- she thinks she could publish it.”

“Bits, that’s great,” Jack says. And it is. Bittle worries about money, and Jack gets it. But Jack plays for the NHL and has won two Stanley Cups, plus all of the endorsements and ad campaigns he does. Bits would never have to work again, if he didn’t want to. “I think you should do it.”

“You do? But we’re planning this wedding, and if I’m not bringing in money it could impact that and our honeymoon, and then there’s the whole thing of adding writing a book while we plan.”

“If you think it’s going to be too much,” Jack says, setting his gatorade down and resting his hands on Bittle’s waist. “We can push the wedding back. We haven’t set out invitations yet, we haven’t booked anything.”

Jack really doesn’t want to wait to marry Bittle. Honestly, he would marry Bittle right now. Or in a few days, once they corral everyone that matters to come and witness it. But Bittle wants a wedding, and so Jack kind of does, too.

“No. I will _not_ push this wedding back. If we can’t get married this upcoming July we’d have to push it to the next July, and that’s basically two years away. I don’t want to wait that long.”

“Neither do I. But I’m not going to talk you out of writing this book, if that’s what you wanted me to do,” Jack says, frowning. “And you don’t need my approval, either.”

“Well maybe not your approval, but your support,” Bittle says, laying a hand on Jack’s arm. “But like it or not, whatever one of us does is going to affect the other. It has for a while, but now it’s all official and permanent. And this book means I’m probably going to have to go on a promotional tour, so I won’t be home for who knows how long, and--”

“Bits, I’m behind you 100%,” Jack says emphatically. “If this is what you want to do, and this is what you love to do, then I’m never going to say no, or refuse to help-- not that I’d be much help anyway. And I feel guilty leaving you here alone when I go on roadies anyway, so--”

“You shouldn’t feel guilty about that,” Bittle says quickly. “You always come when it matters.”

“Then you shouldn’t feel guilty about traveling for a book tour. I can’t promise I’ll always be able to dramatically show up on your doorstep in the rain--”

“I still can’t believe you did that,” Bittle says, fondly shaking his head.

“Being away is the last thing you should feel guilty about,” Jack finishes, drawing Bittle in close and kissing him on the forehead. “Now go call Mika before she leaves her office.”

...

“So what do you think of these?” Bittle says, showing Jack yet another “Save the Date” template. This one looks like it comes as a card and as a magnet.

“Why is there a barn?” asks Jack. The template has a tiny image of a barn, and where there isn’t a barn there’s red and white gingham or distressed wood. 

“This is the ‘rustic chic’ template,” Bittle says. 

“We’re not getting married in a barn, are we? Because I think people would expect a barn if we sent them these.”

“Hmmm,” Bittle says. This is the tenth design Bittle’s shown him today, and Jack hasn’t liked any of them. He hasn’t liked any that Bittle has shown him over the past two days.

Jack didn’t think it would be this hard.

“Wait, I think I have an idea,” Jack says before he can really think about it. He gets up from the dining room table, where they’ve both been staring at Bittle’s computer, and runs to the spare bedroom/office, where Jack keeps his iMac. He pulls up his photos, and then he pulls up photoshop.

“What if,” he says as Bittle comes in a few moments later, holding a refilled glass of wine. “We do something like this?”

Jack’s selected a photo he took of Montreal from Mont Royal when he was showing Bittle around last year. He loads it into photoshop, tweaking the saturation until it’s nearly black. The lines it up along the bottom of the page, and crops what doesn’t fit. His first text layer says “Save the Date” over the blacked out city. His next layer gives all the details

Eric & Jack  
11.7.2020  
Montreal, Quebec  
Formal Invitation to Follow

“So basically this, but maybe we could get Lardo to do something colorful with the building outlines,” he says, proud of his work. People like to laugh at his technological incompetence-- they don’t realize he’s a photoshop wizard.

“I actually really like that idea,” Bittle says, resting his chin on Jack’s head. Jack can tell he’s enjoying their temporary height difference. “Especially if we add color and change the font to something that isn’t Times New Roman.”

“You do?” Jack asks, a little surprised.

“I really do!” Bittle assures him, placing a kiss on the top of his head. “We need to change the date to American, though.”

“But then we’ll have Canadians thinking the Wedding is in November,” Jack points out.

“The way it is now all the Americans will think it’s in November.”

“How about we just write it all out? 11 July, 2020?”

“I suppose we could do it that way,” Bittle says, sighing dramatically, but Jack can feel his smile. “Since the wedding is in Montreal and this was your idea.”

They fiddle around with fonts a bit more, and then Jack texts Lardo to commission the rest of the invitation. She demands payment in the form of pie, and Jack and Bittle can’t convince her to take actual money. Two days later she sends the the final template, which is far more professional that Jack could have ever have managed, and the last week of August finds Bittle and Jack stuffing envelopes with the magnets and cards they’ve had made.

“You’ve got everything you need for this weekend, right?” Jack asks for the twentieth time today. 

“Yes, honey, I promise I do.” Bittle assures him. They’re flying up to Montreal for Labor Day weekend before preseason begins, and most of Friday is going to be spent meeting with the immigration lawyers. There are a lot of hoops to jump through to get Bits’ Canadian citizenship, or even permanent residency, especially since Jack isn’t exactly living in Canada right now. The lawyers are going to walk them through the initial paperwork and guide them through the entire process.

“Okay. Sorry I keep harping about it.”

“It’s alright, sweetie. It’s perfectly normal. I’m half afraid I’ll forget something myself,” Bittle says. “But there is something we need to talk about.”

“Oh? What is it?” Jack says absently, writing out an address to Marty and Gabby. It’s been a long time since “we need to talk” meant anything truly terrible (Bits getting stressed out about a secret relationship, mainly), and Jack has worked very hard to not get his guard up immediately.

“Kent Parson,” Bittle says, quiet but determined.

And there it is again. 

“What about him?” Jack’s not mad, but he’s wary. He hates that he can’t shake the wariness off, especially when it’s coming from Bittle, who still isn’t Kent’s biggest fan.

“He wasn’t on your list of people you wanted to invite,” Bittle says. “I know you two have been talking more lately, and I… I didn’t want you to not invite him because you thought I wouldn’t like it.”

“That’s not why he’s not on the list,” Jack says quietly. Yes, he’s been talking to Kent more, especially after the Falc’s most recent Cup win. It’s made it easier, to know that he and Kent are more or less on equal ground now. But even though they text semi-regularly now, they haven’t exactly apologized to each other, and Bittle’s only met Kent once since that horrible Epikegster. 

Jack knows that Bittle isn’t jealous, knows that if it was important to him that Bittle and Kent be friends, Bittle would try his best. But Jack isn’t sure how much he likes the thought of them being in the same room, or being even slightly friendly. It’s not that he thinks Kent will turn Bittle against him-- Kent only ever sabotages Jack to Jack’s face, never behind his back. And Bittle dislikes Kent enough that it’s not like he’d listen to what he said, even if he tried to tell Bittle all of Jack’s numerous failings. And Jack knows that Tater always seems to have it out for Kent whenever they play the Aces, and that Bittle usually sends him to practice with Tater’s favorite baked goods after Aces games, and ----

“Jack, honey, look at me,” he suddenly hears Bittle. He sounds far away at first, but Jack comes back to himself to find Bittle standing over him, his hands cupped around his face.

“Sorry, sorry I was just… thinking,” Jack says. He realizes that he’s broken into a cold sweat.

Bittle frowns at him.

“Jack… We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but that wasn’t just--”

“I know, I know,” Jack says, stretching up so that he can kiss Bittle, because that’s what he needs right now. Bittle, probably sensing this, gently kisses him back, running his hands through Jack’s hair.

“I want to talk about it, just… give me a few minutes.”

Bittle nods, and leads Jack over to the couch. He sits down at the end, and Jack lays down across the entire thing, his head pillowed in Bittle’s lap. He closes his eyes and focuses on Bittle carding his fingers through his hair.

“I don’t want to invite him,” Jack says, opening his eyes to stare into Bittle’s huge brown ones. 

“Okay, then we won’t,” Bittle says, and there’s no hint of judgement or disbelief in his voice and Jack loves him so much.

“But not because you don’t like him,” Jack continues. “We’ve been texting, yes, but… If he was there, I’d be just worrying and I wouldn’t be able to focus on why we’re there,” he reaches up to cup Bittle’s face. “And I want to spend the day looking at you and being happy with you.”

“You’ve seemed fine when you’re facing him on the ice,” Bittle says, gently probing. 

“It’s.. different,” Jack says. “On the ice, I have a job I know I can do, but you,” he says, finding one of Bittle hands and grasping at it. “I’m so afraid I’m going to let you down, or that I’m going to make you hate me, and when Kent’s around, it’s like I’m eighteen again, and am going to make the same mistakes I did then.”

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann, you would actually have to work to disappoint me, or to make me hate you,” Bittle says seriously. “I love you so much.”

“I know, and I love you, too… I still don’t want to invite Kent.”

Bittle smiles. “Then we won’t invite Kent. Thanks for talking to me about it.”

“Thank you for listening,” Jack says. He hoists himself up and pulls Bittle into a kiss.

“Now let’s get back to stuffing envelopes,” he says when they come up for air. “We should get them done before we leave.”

...

Winter comes early this year, and Bittle is wrapped up in the fancy, over-the-top parka Jack got him for Christmas years ago by mid November. 

“But it’s so mild out,” Jack chirps as they walk to their car after one of Bittle’s co-ed adult rec league hockey games. It’s thirty-two degrees fahrenheit, which may technically be freezing, but Jack is comfortable in a wool jacket.

Bittle grumbles something about stupid Canadians and how Jack would probably wade through snow naked if given the chance. When they get to the car Jack takes a moment to kiss Bittle’s red nose before the heater kicks in.

Tomorrow is the start of a week and a half long West Coast roadie for Jack and the Falcs. They’re starting in Edmonton, then on to San Jose, and then to Vancouver before flying back to Providence. Thankfully, he’ll have a couple of days off, but Bittle has to be in New York the day Jack gets back, and the day after, for a meeting with his publisher. Mika, his agent, had pitched Bittle’s cookbook to multiple publishers in New York last month, and Bittle met with three possible editors while Jack was on another, shorter, roadie. Now he and Mika have selected a publisher, and Bittle has two days of deadlines and final paperwork to hammer out. 

So they’re going almost two weeks without seeing each other, but Bittle will catch the last train from New York to Providence, and get home just after Jack gets in from a home game against the Aces.

“You’re going to get sick of my calls after a few days,” Bittle says just before Jack leaves their condo, smoothing Jack’s light blue tie. “We have to start thinking about seating for the reception and who we’re going to get to cater.”

“Round tables,” Jack says, leaning down to kiss Bittle. “You and me, our parents, and the wedding party at a long table?” 

“Mmmmm,” Bittle says, more focused on kissing Jack than anything else. “Sounds good to me.”

“I’ll text my mom and ask her if she knows any good caterers. We can do tastings while we’re up for Christmas.”

“You do that. And I’m baking the cake.”

“You’re baking the cake,” Jack sighs, resigned. At least he’s talked Bittle out of cooking all the food and a dessert bar. The cake (and probably mini pies too, who is Jack kidding?) won’t cause as much stress as the whole meal.

One last kiss, and Jack finally tears himself out of the door.

 

He calls his mom on the flight to Edmonton.

“Maman?” he asks when she picks up the phone.

“Jack! Are you on your way to Edmonton?”

“Oui,” he says, switching to French so Tater and Snowy won’t understand everything. Marty’s sitting just behind him, though, so it’s probably a lost cause. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

“Sure, sweetheart, anything.”

“So Bits put me in charge of all savory food for the wedding,” he begins.

“That boy must really love you,” his mom says. It’s meant to be a chirp, but Jack can tell his mom thinks it’s adorable.

“I’ll have you know I do most of the cooking. Or I did, before Bits left Kitchen Table. Anyway I’m not allowed near any of the dessert.”

Jack hears Marty snort behind him.

“Still, you managed to convince him not to cater the whole thing himself.”

“Heh, that’s true,” Jack admits “But I was wondering, do you know any good caterers in Montreal? I’d look it up myself, but you go to more events back home and I don’t exactly trust Yelp.”

“Oh I definitely know more than my fair share. What were you two thinking you wanted?”

“Standard wedding fare. Salad, a couple of different options for an entree. Oh, Bits says he refuses to hire anyone who will serve bread made in a factory.”

His mom laughs at that, and Jack can hear a pencil scratching on paper in the background. “Anything else?”

“Well, they need to be able to cater out at your and dad’s place. And the bread thing. And they can’t fry everything.”

“I’ll call some friends who had great catering at their events and asked who they used. I’ll get the names to you and you can call them and set up tastings when you come for Christmas.”

“Thanks, Maman.”

“No problem, sweetheart. 

“I should probably take a nap now, but I’ll talk to you later.”

“Alright, Jack. Have a safe flight, and good luck against the Oilers tomorrow.”

“Bye, Maman.”

Jack hangs up, leans his chair back, and sleeps.

 

The next day, the Falcs beat the Oilers 3-1, and Jack’s mom sends him the list in an email. It’s four caterers, and Jack manages to call Bittle before he has to leave for the Edmonton airport that afternoon.

“Hey sweetpea,” Bittle greets. “What’s up?”

“My mom sent me a list of caterers. Two of them have catered a couple of events you and I have been to.”

“Oh? What are our options?”

Jack runs through the list. Eventually they decide to go with the company that his parents had hired to cater their annual New Year’s soiree last year. Jack had liked the food, and even Bittle’s eyes managed to bulge when he tasted the bite sized Beef Wellington. Plus, they know the owners are discrete, and can cater an event at the Zimmermann homestead.

“I’ll call them tomorrow before we start practice,” Jack says. “And I’ll tell them we want hors d'oeuvres for the cocktail hour, non-factory bread, a salad course, two main course options, and a vegetarian option.”

“Sounds good to me. Just make sure we get the Beef Wellington finger puffs.”

“We’ll tell them what we want on the menu, and then we’ll do a tasting of the different options over Christmas, but I’ll make sure to insist on the Wellington.”

“I’m drooling just thinking about it. How are you feeling about San Jose tomorrow?”

“Pretty good. Tater got hit hard last night, and his shoulder still aches, so that’s something we’ll need to watch out for.”

“Your coaches took him out in the third period, didn’t they?”

Jack chats with Bittle about last night’s game, then lets him talk about how he’s trying to tweak his blondie recipe just to hear his voice. It’s going to be hard, not coming home to Bittle next week.

San Jose is harder than Edmonton, but they eke out a 2-1 win.

Jack gets Shitty to write a nondisclosure agreement to put into the catering contract, prints out the full thing in the hotel business lounge, signs it, and then priority ships it to Montreal.

On the plane from San Jose to Vancouver, Jack watches Bittle’s latest vlog, and then rewatches it when Tater realizes what he’s watching. 

They lose in Vancouver 3-1.

So Jack’s disheartened when he flies back into Providence. They lost a game, and Bits isn’t here. 

And then Jack walks into the condo. 

There’s a fresh post-it note on the refrigerator that says “Your best is good enough.”

There’s one on their bathroom mirror that says “Hey, handsome ;)”

There’s one on the tupperware of quinoa that says “There’s a surprise for you by your iMac”

Next to his iMac there’s a box wrapped in butcher paper and tied with string, accompanied by a note that says “Just so you don’t get too bored while I’m gone.”

Jack unwraps the gift, laughs, and picks up his phone.

“Hey there, sweetpea,” Bittle greets after the first ring, bright and cheerful.

“You got me a model airplane kit?” Jack says, looking down at the box in his hands. 

“It’s a Lancaster bomber. The internet says the British and Canadian air forces used them in WWII,” Bittle says. “I figured I should find something for my favorite old man to do while I’m gone.”

“Heh. It’s great, Bits, thank you,” Jack says. “How’re your meetings going?”

“Really well. I actually have to go, we’re just about to start dinner. But I’ll talk to you later, alright?”

“Alright, Bits, talk to you later.”

Jack gets half of the model assembled before Bits calls again, and they talk as they both fall asleep.

Jack has practice the next morning, but the game against the Aces isn’t until tomorrow night. He goes over to Marty and Gabby’s for dinner, and their son Benny asks Jack why Bittle isn’t there.

Jack gets a text from Kent the next morning.

**Kenny:** Do u wanna hang out after the game? I don’t have anywhere 2 b

**Me:** Thanks, but Bittle is getting back from a business trip tonight. Haven’t seen him in a week

**Kenny:** That’s chill. See you tonight, Zims

 

When Jack hits the ice that night, he nods at Kent, who nods back. 

Since Jack’s first game against the Aces, the Falcs and the Aces have developed a bit of a rivalry. The commentators like to chalk it up to Jack and Kent alone, but if anything it’s Tater and Kent. Tonight, Tater’s shoulder has miraculously healed, and he’s using it to slam Kent with just barely legal checks. Kent can’t get contact with the puck as much as he’s used to, and it throws the entire Aces team off. 

The Falcs win 4-2.

Jack goes through the post-game media circus, showers, and finally looks at his phone. There are a bunch of notifications from the SMH groupchat (as there always are when Jack plays. He enjoys looking through everyone’s commentary after each game), and one from Bits.

**Bits:** Good game, honey! That second period goal was amazing. And tell Snowy congrats on that save in the third period!

“Bittle says that save fifteen minutes into period three was great,” Jack says to Snowy. Snowy nods in appreciation. 

After a brief team meeting, Jack heads home. Part of him wants to be home before Bits, and part of him doesn’t want to come home to an empty condo. So he stops at the Whole Foods around the corner from their building, gets a bouquet, and walks in the door just as his phone goes off.

**Bits:** My train got delayed in New London, but I can’t wait to see you!  <3

**Me:** You want me to pick you up at the station?

**Bits:** You stay right where you are. I have plans for you, Mr. Zimmermann ;)

**Me:** What sort of plans

**Bits:** Just don’t get too comfortable in your pjs

Jack sets down his phone, puts the flowers in a vase, and shuffles to the bedroom. He’s just making sure there’re enough condoms and lube in his bedside drawer when there’s a knock on the door.

Did Bits forget his key? Jack wonders. His shirt is totally unbuttoned, but he’s pretty sure it’s Bits, so he doesn’t bother buttoning it up. He walks downstairs, opens the door--

Kent Parson is standing in his hallway.

“I thought I told you I had plans tonight,” Jack says, not moving out of the doorway.

“Amtrak’s delayed. I checked. You have a couple of minutes.”

“How did you even get in?”

“Your doorman is a Falcs fan. I lost tonight, so he was feeling generous.”

Kent’s voice is sharp and cold, the way it is when he’s thinking about how to say something.

“You could at least let me in, Zimms,” he says. 

Jack huffs, but he stands to the side. Kent strides through the door and up the stairs.

“Could you be anymore of an old man?” Kent asks once Jack reaches the top of the stairs behind him. Kent’s pointing to the model Lancaster on the dining table.

“They’re fun. Bittle got it for me.”

“Speaking of Eric Bittle,” Kent says, walking over and picking up the half finished model. “How come I had to overhear Mashkov talking on the phone about planning your bachelor party to find out you were getting married?”

Jack is silent. This is… Not how he intended Kent to find out.

Jack knows, now, that Kent was in love with him back in the Q. That what was just physical, hockey, for Jack was something more for Kent. And he feels a little bad about that, but he’s never known how to tell Kent that he’s… not sorry, exactly, that it ended the way it did, without apologizing for falling in love with Bittle. For marrying Bittle. Because Parse is still kind of in love with him. 

“Jesus Christ, Jack. You can at least say something.”

“I’m sorry you had to find out like that.”

“I’m guessing I’m not invited, is that it? Does Eric Bittle not want me there?”

“Leave Bittle out of this. I was the one who decided not to invite you.”

“Why the fuck can’t I come to your wedding, Zimms?”

Jack closes the gap between them, and slips the plane out of Kent’s grasp.

“Because you keep barging into my home, and when I can’t give you what you want, you try and find some other way to make yourself feel better, and that usually means making me feel like shit,” Jack says, gently setting the model back on its stand. “You need to leave.”

“Are you afraid Eric’s gonna see me here? He keep you on that short of a leash?”

“Leave, Kenny,” Jack says, striding down the stairs and opening the door. Kent eventually follows him down, putting his entire weight on each foot as he plops down the stairs one by one.

When he finally appears, he straightens his snapback, and gives Jack one last look. For a moment, Kent looks desperate. He reaches out, grasps the open front of Jack’s shirt, then jerks back like he’s been electrocuted. Jack can see his face harden.

“Congratulations, Zimms. You have two Stanley Cups and a fiancé who thinks the sun shines out of your ass. And pretty soon you’re going to be the first out player in the NHL. Don’t think about that last part too much,” Kent says, giving Jack one last smirk.

“Have a good night, Kenny,” Jack says, closing and locking the door.

Once he’s sure the door is locked, Jack takes out his cell phone and calls down to the front desk. After being assured that Kent Parson has in fact left the building, he breathes.

But he’s not shaking. He doesn’t feel panicked at all. Now that he’s breathing normally again he feels… fine?

It’s not the way he wanted Kent to find out. He was going to text him about it. He was going to casually mention when they discussed Christmas plans. He could handle Kent over the phone. He was going to say it was going to be a small wedding--- just family and close friends. If family included the Falcs, well, Kent didn’t have to know that.

And Bittle’s due home any minute now, and that’s really all Jack can think about.

Right one cue, Jack hears a key turn in the lock.

He takes the stairs two at a time and lifts Bittle up as soon has he’s over the threshold.

... 

“So the ceremony is going to be here,” Bittle says, trudging through several inches of snow in one corner of Jack’s parents’ massive backyard. It’s almost two acres of space, not including the pond Jack’s dad uses to skate in the winter.

The space where they’re set to have the ceremony overlooks the St. Lawrence River, and the view will make a nice backdrop. Judge Marceau, a family friend, is going to perform the ceremony. 

“And the tent for the cocktail hour and the reception will be there,” Jack says, gesturing to area several yards away.

“And we’ll take pictures in the same area we had the ceremony, because that view is gorgeous,” Bittle adds.

“It sounds like you two have it all worked out,” Jack’s dad says, shoving his ungloved hands into his pockets. 

“Did you guys think about hiring security at all?” his mom asks.

“We actually wanted to get your thoughts on that. Do you think it’s necessary?” Jack asks. He really doesn’t want to, but he also doesn’t want his wedding photos all over the press before he officially releases them.

“We’ve never had to hire any for our parties, unless the Prime Minister was planning on showing up,” his mom says. “And since he isn’t on your guest list..”

“We’re also inviting in inordinate amount of hockey players to this, so I think they’ll be our most effective bouncers,” Bittle says, shivering as a wind blows through the yard. Jack reaches out and pulls him closer. 

“My thoughts exactly,” Mom says. “Why don’t we go and discuss the menu inside?”

The family trudges back to the house, snow whirling around them.

“Is this going to be your first white Christmas, Bittle?” Jack asks as soon as they’re inside shucking off their boots.

“Ugh, yes,” Bittle replies, sounding a bit perturbed. “I still don’t understand the appeal.”

“Just wait until night comes and you’re in front of the fire with a mug of hot cocoa,” Mom says. “I think you’ll get the appeal, then.”

Of course, she’s right.

It’s nearing midnight, and Jack’s parents have long since gone to bed, but he and Bittle are still up, snuggled together on the big couch, staring out the big picture windows at the snow falling in the backyard. There remains of the fire are still crackling in the grate, and they have a big fleece blanket draped over them. Jack’s a little hot, to be honest, but Bittle’s comfortable, so Jack chooses not to suggest tossing the blanket off.

“Now I see what your mom was saying,” Bittle says, sipping the dregs from his third cup of hot cocoa. “Maybe white Christmases aren’t so bad.”

“I’m pretty fond of them, to be honest,” Jack says, holding Bittle as he stretches to place his now empty mug on the coffee table. 

“We’re gonna be married for all the holidays next year. Except the fourth, of course,” Bittle says. 

“Six and a half months from now,” Jack says. He’s been counting down the days since they set the date.

“We need to send out invitations once we get home.”

“How many people are we inviting?”

“One hundred,” Bittle says.

“But we’re only expecting seventy-five to show.”

“Yep.”

“That’s a good number,” Jack says, in lieu of making sure (for the fiftieth time) that Bittle will be fine without most of his relatives there. 

“It is,” Bittle says, lazily. No matter how old he gets, he’s never going to be able to fall asleep at a reasonable hour on Christmas Eve. But he sounds sleepy now, and Jack’s been stifling yawns for the past hour.

“You have any more thoughts on the cake?” he asks.

“Yes!” Bittle says, and Jack can feel Bittle’s body jerk to attention. This was the wrong question to ask.

“I’m thinking three tiers. The bottom is going to be honey flavored, I think, the middle will be maple, and the top will honey again. Topped with my classic buttercream frosting.”

“I really like your honey and maple cakes,” Jack says. The honey cake is actually his favorite, on those rare occasions when Bits decides to bake cake instead of pie. “Are you going to put any decorations on it?”

“I’m not sure. Part of me wants to go really cliched and put two little grooms on top, you know? But I also kind of like the idea of kind of sculpting the icing?”

“I like the simpler cakes you were showing me the other day,” Jack admits. There was one where the icing looked like wood grain.

“Yeah. And I want people to remember how good it tasted, not what it looked like.”

“You’re going to worry about both,” Jack points out.

“Presentation is important, but it isn’t everything, Mr. Zimmermann.”

 

...

 

This waiting is going to kill Jack. 

He’s worried about someone will leak it to the press. He’s worried that Bittle’s book publisher will insist on a promotional tour that will cut their honeymoon short. He’s worried that ESPN will blame any season that doesn’t end in a Stanley Cup on his anxiety. Or wedding preparations. Or being outed. He’s worried that he’s accidentally going to introduce Bittle as his fiancée to people not in the know. He’s worried that Bittle’s relatives will do something far nastier than the firm, flimsily-excused refusals to the wedding invitations Jack and Bittle have received so far. He’s worried that no one’s actually going to come to his wedding. He’s worried that something will go horribly wrong with the immigration paperwork and Bittle won’t be able to travel to Canada once they’re married. He’s worried that some guy at the baking convention Bittle’s at right now is going to sweep him off his feet and--

“Brah, can I hot box your guest bathroom?”

Jack is ripped away from his spiraling thoughts by Shitty B. Knight falling dramatically onto his couch and on top of Jack. In just his socks and some stained boxers.

“Shitty, what the--”

“It’s your smallest bathroom, and don’t give me that look. Pot is technically legal in Rhode Island now,” Shitty says.

“Shits, you are a licensed attorney.”

“And therefore, I know what is and what is not legal. Now, can I hot box your bathroom?”

“No!”

“Alright, Jack Laurent Zimmermann. You win this time. But now you have to entertain me.”

“Can you put on some pants first, at least?”

“No can do, Jacko. The only people who get pants-on-demand are the ones who I file billable hours with.”

“Fine. What do you want to do?”

“I feel like I haven’t been fulfilling my best manly duties in a while,” Shitty says. “I’m supposed to be here to talk you out of getting cold feet, or help you enjoy your last few months as a bachelor or some shit.”

“I’m not getting cold feet,” Jack protests.

“I know you’re not. But you’re worrying about everything else.”

Jack sighs. 

“Yeah,” he admits.

“So why don’t you talk to Dr. Shitty, psychiatric help for five cents.”

“I will if you get your smelly feet out of my face.”

Shitty makes a show of rearranging himself, and once Jack’s face is relatively clear of Shitty foot, he breathes in and out.

“I’m worried someone who knows what they’re doing is going to sweep Bittle off his feet at his conference this weekend.”

“No one knows what they’re doing, and Bittle literally has heart eyes for you every day. And watches your history documentaries regularly. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

“I’m worried it’s all going to get leaked and pictures of my wedding will show up online before we actually release them.”

“If it leaks, it leaks, but I don’t think it will. You have a lot of people who know how important discretion is to you,” Shitty says. “And if it does leak, Georgia Martin and I will slap them with a bunch of lawsuits, and we’ll hire security at your wedding. And fly drones to shoot down other drones and helicopters that want pictures.”

“Drones?”

“We’ll get the Canadian Air Force on it. And if they’re busy, I will personally take a crash course in drone piloting. Or Ransom and Holster will. They’d be into that.”

“I’m worried they won’t let Bits become a Canadian citizen.”

“Brah you’ve got the best lawyers in Montreal. And you’re also a national treasure. They’re gonna let Bitty become a citizen.”

“I don’t want us to be treated any different.”

“Yeah you’re Canada’s favorite son. And you’re about to become the first out player in the NHL. Anonymity a nice dream, but that’s out of your control.”

“I’m afraid that if we don’t make the playoffs, or if we get any less than a Cup this year, ESPN will say I’m not focusing enough on playing because of wedding planning or coming out or being gay.”

“You’ve won two Stanley Cups, and everyone else is full of shit. Also, it’s a good thing you’re planning the wedding. The only way Bitty would resent you is if you acted like you had more important things to do.”

“Getting married to Bittle is the most important thing,” Jack agrees, “But I just wish I didn’t have to wait so long.”

“Having an actual wedding is important to Bitty, and you are being a good, supportive fiancée and future husband.”

“It is important to him. He didn’t think he was going to be able to have one.”

“Fuck, really?” 

“I mean he was literally locked in a closet in Georgia, and you know how his parents reacted when he first came out. He didn’t think he’d get to talk about it or celebrate it with them.”

“Jesus Christ. I’m glad they came around, but shit. What a thing to put in your kid’s head. I mean, I know Mr. and Mrs. Bittle are good with it now, and they love Bitty, which is the important thing, and they’ll make good in-laws, probably, but--”

“Trust me, I’ve thought everything you’re thinking.”

“They’re coming to the wedding, right?”

“Yep.”

“Are any of his other family coming?”

“His Aunt Judy and Uncle Scott, his favorite cousin Sarah, Moomaw, and Andrew, one of his cousins. And his former figure skating coach.”

“Doesn’t Bitty have a shit ton of cousins?”

“He has eight first cousins, and ten second cousins he grew up with.”

“And only two are coming?”

“Yep.”

“I’d go round a few more of them up, but honestly I don’t think we’d want them.”

“Exactly. And I want Bits to be happy, but I don’t want him to look at everyone watching and only see who isn’t there, rather than who is.”

“He’s Bitty. He may think that for a minute, which yes, I know, is a minute too long, but all the family he really likes is there. All the bakers in the Bittle-Phelps clan will be there to give their blessing,” Shitty points out. “And if you’re really worried just make sure your suit is really well tailored so that it shows off the best ass in the NHL.” If Jack wasn’t sitting on said ass, Shitty would probably have made to slap it. 

“Somehow I don’t feel like that will help.”

“There are only a few things that can render our Bitty speechless, and one of them is your majestic ass. Can I ask a question?”

“Sure?”

“So, I know the closet incident happened, but I don’t know that much about what exactly happened. And if this is too personal, or you don’t think Bitty’d want you talking about it, please feel free to not answer me. He’s mentioned it off-hand a couple of times, about the football team.”

Jack considers this for a minute.

“I won’t tell you the whole thing until Bits does, but it was the football team.”

“Was his dad the coach of that football team?”

”... An assistant coach. One of the reasons they moved back to Madison.”

“Shit.”

Shitty and Jack are silent for a few minutes, each wrapped up in their own thoughts.

“You know, Bitty had a crush on you for almost six months before you actually got together. I’m just… I’m really glad that he wanted you, and that he got you, and that he gets to keep you.”

“Me too, Shits.”

“And I recognize that wedding planning is stressful and not fun, but I’m glad you want to give him what he wants.”

“I try really hard. Hopefully it’s good enough.”

“It is.”

They’re silent for a few minutes more.

“Are you worried about anything else?” Shitty finally asks.

“Nothing I actually need to worry about.”

“It doesn’t make them any less scary. Lay ‘em on me.”

...

The Falcs don’t get to the Stanley Cup Final that year. They lose in the Conference finals to the Capitols.

Jack finds himself less annoyed than he usually is when they fall out of the playoffs. It just means that this year he’s going to get more time with Bittle, and that he’ll be able to pick up more of the wedding planning. Because while Jack’s season may be winding down, Bittle’s is ramping up. 

The cookbook is in the final stages of edits, and Bits spends a lot of time on skype with his editors, arguing about which recipes to put in and the composition of certain photos he doesn’t think are right. His rec league hockey team is also has their own playoff tournament coming up, so a weekend that would have been devoted to last minute planning is going to be swallowed up whole by two days of tournaments and drinking. Jack is glad he’ll actually be able to make the playoff tournament this year-- last year he was on a plane home from the conference finals. 

So Jack has Ransom make a spreadsheet. Jack finalizes the caterers, the tent for the reception, the dance floor, the dj (not a live band, because “no one can cover Beyoncé, thank you very much”) the flowers (Canadian violets and false sunflowers), the open bar, renting chairs for the ceremony and reception. He hires the photographer, and gets Ransom to make another spreadsheet of all the guests. It’s going to come in right at 75.

Late one Friday night in the second weekend of June, Jack suddenly starts upright in bed.

“Wha? What’s wrong, honey?” Bittle asks, trying to will himself awake but failing.

“Rings.”

“What?”

“We don’t have wedding rings yet.”

Now it’s Bittle’s turn to bolt upright.

“Shit!” he cries. “We don’t have wedding rings!”

“I’ll call the jeweler in the morning. They can probably squeeze in an appointment for us.”

“What kind of rings do we even want??”

Jack thinks about it for a moment.

“Platinum? Or white gold.” Bits is very insistent on paying for Jack’s ring himself, and even with his book advance, platinum is kind of a stretch. 

“White gold will look nice with the engagement rings,” Bittle says, gazing down fondly at the black band on his finger. Not that he can see it in the dark. 

“Let’s do that, then.”

“Okay. Let’s go back to sleep.”

Jack calls the jeweler first thing the next morning, and by that evening he and Bittle have two matching white gold rings carefully stowed away in the back of Jack’s sock drawer.

 

“Let’s run through the list one more time,” Bittle says. 

It’s July 3rd, 2020. Instead of flying down to Madison, Georgia, Jack and Bittle are all set to fly up to Montreal Quebec. To get married.

They’re getting married a week from tomorrow.

Well, technically, they’re getting the marriage license Wednesday. But the actual ceremony is next Saturday.

“Rings?” Bittle begins.

“In the inner pocket of your messenger bag,” Jack says, checking to make sure the black velvet box is still there.

“Suits?”

“In the garment bag.”

“Passports?”

“In my backpack.”

“Contracts and confirmation documents for all of the vendors?”

“Also in your messenger bag.”

“One suitcase each for our honeymoon?”

“Check and check,” Jack says, looking at his black suitcase and Bittle’s red one by the door.

“That’s everything important,” Bittle says. “Anything else we can buy replacements for in Montreal.”

“So we’re leaving now?”

“We’re leaving now,” Bittle nods, grabbing the handle of his suitcase and extending it.

“You know,” Jack says, taking Bittle’s hand. “When we come back, we’re going to be married.”

“We are,” Bittle says, breaking into a huge smile before standing on his toes to kiss Jack.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I distrust stories that are all sunshine and rainbows, this chapter brings the angst! But there's a happy ending, promise.

“RISE AND SHINE MOTHAFUCKIN’ LOVEBIRDS.”

This is the first thing Jack hears the morning of his wedding, followed by what sounds like an air horn and Bittle falling out of bed.

“Shitty, what the--” but he’s cut off someone shoving a brown paper bag over his head.

“Groom and groom cannot see each other day of the wedding!” Tater loudly proclaims. “Lardo, is B’s bag on?”

“It is, my friend. Chowder, do you have Bitty’s suit?” comes Lardo’s voice.

“Yep! I have it right here! And his shoes!” 

“Sweet. Bits, we’ve requisitioned the first floor bedroom and bathroom for you, so that you have easy access to the kitchen the finish up that cake.”

“And Jack you’re staying with us for the rest of the day,” Shitty announces. 

“This wasn’t part of the plan!” Jack hears Bittle squeak.

“Maybe not, but this is a great picture,” comes Jack’s dad’s voice. It sounds like he’s near the doorway to the hall.

“This just isn’t feasible. Oh, thank you, Chowder, but I can get myself up.”

“Let Chowder help you. If you don’t I’ll have Tater carry you downstairs.”

“Shits,” Jack begins. “How did you get roped into this? Don’t we have the right to buck tradition--”

“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING ZIMMBONI WE CANNOT HEAR YOU THROUGH THE BAG. LALALA WONDER WHAT HE IS SAYING.” cries Tater perilously close to Jack’s ear.

“You two already had a bachelor party together, you’re letting us have this. We’ll let you guys see each other before everyone arrives, but not before then,” Lardo proclaims. “Come on, Bittle. We’ve got a cake to finish.”

“Lardo, I love you to death, but--”

“We’ve already got Dex downstairs awaiting your final instructions. I don’t trust myself to get anywhere near your wedding cake.”

All the fight deflates out of Bittle. Jack can’t see it, but he sure can feel it.

“You’ll let us see each other before everyone arrives?” Bittle asks.

“Scouts’ honor. As soon as you’re done with the cake and you two are showered and gussied up.”

“Fine,” Bittle says. Jack hears him and Chowder shuffling towards the door.

“See you later, Bits,” Jack calls.

“See you later, honey,” Bittle gets in before the door closes. 

Then Tater finally removes the paper bag.

“Was that necessary?” Jack asks, rubbing his eyes.

“Yes. Now get prepared to set up some chairs,” Shitty says, tossing a pair of Jack’s older shorts at him. “We got work to do.”

At 2 pm, Jack, his mom, Shitty, and Tater have everything set up. The Bittles arrive just after lunch to help put the finishing touches on everything, but soon afterwards Jack is whisked upstairs to get ready. He showers, does his hair as best he can, and climbs into his suit. He took Shitty with him to have it tailored, which Jack maybe thinks was a mistake, because it hugs his ass more than his suits usually do.

“What you’re feeling right now is just a suit that fits properly,” Shitty says, smacking Jack on the butt. “Come on, let me stick this on you.”

Very, very carefully, Shitty slips a flower through the buttonhole on Jack’s lapel.

“Hot damn. You’re going to break so many hearts when your wedding photos are finally posted.”

“I will make sure to tag all of the Zimmboni fangirls who wear his face to games,” Tater says, referencing the frankly alarming number of women who show up to Falconers games wearing his jersey and homemade Jack Zimmermann masks. There’s apparently a facebook group called “Zany for Zimmermann.”

“I’m sure Bits’ll get a kick out of that,” Jack says. Bittle has been waiting to ‘lovingly troll’ the fanclub for years.

“Speaking of, Lards says that they’re all set downstairs. And everyone’s going to start arriving soon.”

“Does that mean I can finally go downstairs?” Jack asks.

“I suppose so,” Shitty says with a put-upon sigh.

Jack opens the door to his bedroom and makes for the staircase, followed closely by Shitty and Tater. Before he can get down the steps, he hears his mom yell.

“Take it slow, Jack! Put your hand on the rail!”

“What?” Jack calls, but he does what she asks. Old habits die hard, he guesses. 

“Why do I--”

But then he sees Bittle standing at the foot of the stairs. He’s wearing a blue suit and a red bow tie, kind of the like the outfit he wore to Jack’s graduation, but newer and expertly tailored. Jack helped him pick it out. They both had final approval over what the other wore. But somehow it’s like he’s seeing Bittle for the first time.

Jack forgets what he was going to say, even as he’s vaguely aware of Shitty and Tater singing “Da, da, dada, Da, da, DADA,” in a truly horrible rendition of “Here Comes the Bride” behind him.

...

_**Jack Zimmermann Comes Out, Gets Married to Literal Ball of Sunshine** _  
_Ariel Lapace, Buzzfeed LGBT News, July 20, 2020_

_Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past few days, you know that Jack Zimmermann, Alternate Captain for Providence Falconers, two time Stanley Cup winner, and owner of the finest ass in the NHL, revealed his recent marriage to one Eric Bittle, popular food blogger and a former teammate from Zimmermann’s days at Samwell University, in a Falconers Summer Snapshot post on the team’s Facebook page._

_You can watch the full video here, but it shows Zimmermann, wielding an iPhone camera with surprising dexterity, given his well documented technological incompetence, filming the remains of a huge tapas feast while his husband looks fondly on. Yes, you read that right, husband. Zimmermann introduces him as such, mentions that they’re on their honeymoon in Madrid, and the two make copious use of endearments like “honey,” “sweetheart,” and “Bits.” These two are taking the term “honeymoon phase” to a whole new level._

_After the internet had a chance to go crazy, (a Stanley Cup Winner just came out as queer, of course everyone lost their shit), the Falconers tweeted a statement from the Zimmermann-Bittles, and then followed up that tweet with another statement giving the couple the full support of the Falconers organization._

_But then came the really good stuff. Once the official Falconers account tweeted the statements, every single one of the Falconers players, plus basically every other guest, flooded twitter and instagram with photos of the wedding, which took place on July 11th in Montreal. It’s worth it to go explore the wedding hashtag #zimbits2020 on twitter and instagram, but suffice it to say, it looks like a party to remember._

_The statement the couple released through the Falconers suggests they have been dating for at least four years, and that they became engaged soon after the Falconers’ second Stanley Cup win last year. The Falconers statement, and the posts by various members of the team, suggest that their relationship has been common knowledge within the Falconers organization for several years._

_Zimmermann’s coming out has revived speculation about the exact causes of his infamous overdose back in June 2009. For those of you unfamiliar with the NHL, Zimmermann was the top draft prospect out of the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League in 2008 before overdosing on anxiety medication. He reappeared three years later at Samwell University, his mother Alicia Zimmermann’s alma mater, (yes, that Alicia Zimmermann) and captained the Samwell Men’s Hockey team for three years before signing with the Providence Falconers in 2015. Since the 2015-2016 season, Zimmermann has distinguished himself as one of the NHL’s top scorers, and co-captained Providence to two Stanley Cup titles. I’ll leave it to my colleagues at Buzzfeed Sports for a more in-depth analysis, but since this month’s events there has been speculation that Zimmermann attempted suicide while coming to terms with his sexuality. We have no concrete proof of this, and we’ll probably have to wait for the inevitable Ellen interview once Zimmermann and Bittle return from their honeymoon._

_Of Eric Bittle, much is actually publicly available. Bittle began a baking vlog in high school while living in Madison, Georgia, and continued that vlog while he played hockey at Samwell University from 2014 to 2018. While at Samwell, Bittle played on Zimmermann’s line, and according to the vlogs that I totally did not binge watch, and his very active twitter feed, Zimmermann helped Bittle through a checking block in his freshman and sophomore years. You can follow him at @omgcheckplease for baking tips, hockey shenanigans, and genuine southern charm._

_Bittle still publishes his vlog, which features recipes that will make your mouth water. He has a delightful screen presence, and his enthusiasm is infectious. He is due to release a cookbook, Bits and Pieces: Recipes from Check, Please! in October. If the Summer Snapshot video is anything to go by, the title is a play on Bittle’s new husband’s nickname for him. If that’s not adorable, I don’t know what is._

_From all of us here at Buzzfeed LGBT, congratulations Mr. and Mr. Zimmermann-Bittle!_

 

“Well that was nice of them,” Jack says, settling back into the deck chair on the balcony of their hotel room in Ibiza and wrapping his arms around Bittle. “But I thought we said we weren’t checking social media on this trip.”

Bittle looks up from scrolling on his phone, and twists around in Jack’s arms so that he can look at his face.

“Honey, my followers are commenting and tweeting at me nonstop. And my mama keeps sending me links to ‘sweet’ articles. And have you seen all the pictures our friends have posted? Tater and Sarah’s instagrams are an adventure. And besides,” Bittle says, twisting around so that he’s on his knees and facing Jack. “I’ve given you quite a bit of my attention recently…”

“Kind of the point of a romantic honeymoon, eh?” Jack says, closing the little distance between him and Bittle, who unceremoniously flings his phone aside.

...

“Here. Taste this one,” Bittle says, draping his arms over Jack’s shoulders and handing him a croquette. Jack winces-- he got a wicked sunburn in Ibiza. It’s only just now peeling, and they’ve been back in Providence for a week.

But Jack obediently accepts the croquette-- Bits is tweaking a recipe for his first post-wedding vlog. Between the two of them, they probably ate their weight of the fatty, deep fried delicacies in Madrid. 

“Hmmm,” he says, taking a bite. He takes a second one, finishing the croquette. “I like this one better. Less like a ball of ham than the last one.”

“Glad you agree with me,” Bits says, kissing the top of his head. “Which photos do you think you’ll post on your instagram?”

Jack looks back at his iMac, and the hundreds of pictures he’s uploaded onto it. 

“These,” he says, opening up a folder and showing Bittle an overview. “Just two or three.”

Bittle lets out a snort.

“Jack. You can’t post all of those.”

“Why not? You look great in all of them!”

“Exactly! I’m in all of them!” Bitty explains, moving back into the kitchen. Jack can’t see him, but he can hear the exasperated smile in his voice as he starts gathering up the croquette supplies.

“And that’s a problem?” Jack calls. 

“What about the one of the sunset from our balcony?” Bitty asks over the sound of the kitchen sink. “Or the fishermen?”

“Bits,” Jack says, hoisting himself up and walking to the kitchen himself, wordlessly grabbing a dishcloth and the clean bowl Bittle hands him. “Remember that photography project I did my senior year?”

“Yes, but what has that got to do with this?”

“I thought I was doing a photo essay on the team, but it was about you the whole time. Let me know exactly what my photos are saying this time.” Jack punctuates this request by taking Bittle’s soapy hand and giving the knuckles feather-light kisses.

“Fine,” Bittle says fondly. “But when Falconers fans tweet at me for ruining your diet plan, I’m tweeting that video of you doing push-ups with me on your back.”

“You’ve been waiting to tweet that for years.”

“You bet your fine ass I have.”

 

Jack posts four photos on his instagram account. It’s not something he uses terribly often, but it’s better than twitter, so he posts maybe once or twice a month, like his publicist suggested. He’s never posted more than one photo at a time, though. 

The first photo he posts is the sunset over the sea. He captions it “View from our balcony.” 

And then he waits. He’s gained approximately a thousand followers since the Falconers video was posted, and he’s enjoying being in charge of the information that people get about him and Bittle.

Two hours later, after a hundred comments that can all be summarized with “Is that all you’re going to show us??” Jack posts his three other photos.

The first one is of Bittle posing next to a portrait in the Prado that looks suspiciously like him. Bittle is trying to imitate the subject’s serious pose, but you can tell from the photo that he’s giggling.

The second one Jack took on a rented sailboat off the island of Formentera. Bittle has one hand on the tiller, the other holding the rope attached to the boom. He’s wearing shorts and a tank top, which show off his tan. He looks in control and sure of himself.

The third one captures Bittle the moment he tastes a spoonful of fig jam at one of the markets. His eyes are closed in apparent bliss.

Jack never replies to comments on his instagram, and usually he doesn’t even look at them, but while Bittle films his latest episode, Jack looks through them. They’re mostly positive-- some photography enthusiasts commending his framing, a lot of people exclaiming about how good looking Bittle is, and several cracking jokes at him for only posting photos of his husband. Tater actually comments “Zimmboni, did only B go on this honeymoon??))”

Jack’s probably going to get a fair amount of chirping for them once regular practices start up again.

Of course, there are the less positive comments. Most of them read along the lines of “I used to be a fan, but…” 

Jack finds that he doesn’t really care. He’s got nothing to prove, not anymore. 

 

The next day, Jack and Bittle go to the Falconers’ training facility on the outskirts of town to meet with his agent, his publicist, George, and Falconers PR. They’re back in the states now: it’s time to face reality.

Jack knows, has always known, that his coming out was going to be a big deal. He’s the first openly queer player in the NHL, and interviews and press coverage come with trailblazer territory. A little after Bittle had first moved in, after Suzanne was speaking to him again, Jack and Bittle had started having quiet conversations about their future. 

“I’m not going to hide forever,” Jack had said, wrapping his arm around Bittle. It’s January, and even though the heater is on and they’re snuggled under a sweltering comforter, Bittle still shakes with cold now and again. “I want to be able to share everything with you. Openly. I want to take you out to dinner and hold your hand.”

“You know what that means, right?” Bittle asked. “You’re going to have to come out. That means interviews and photospreads. It may involve you losing fans.” Bits is quiet, small when he says this. He always is when he talks about Jack coming out. 

“I play a game I love as my job. You’re the only cheering section I need.”

It’s true, and Jack wondered, for the hundredth time, what he could do to make Bittle believe it. 

“I’m just thinking,” Bittle said hesitantly. “I want, and you want, to do it without any fuss-- because there shouldn’t be fuss, it’s 2018-- but we know that it’s not going to be that easy.”

“Right,” Jack said. He knows they won’t be able to get out of all of the interviews PR will want him to do.

“So if we’re going to have to announce it anyway, and if people are going to be interested, shouldn’t we give the people what they want?”

“... What?”

“I don’t like the idea of having someone else’s cameras in my face, believe me, but… It would have meant a lot to me, when I was younger, if someone like you, or someone like me, even, came out. And you don’t have to skate onto the ice waving a pride flag or anything, but we could celebrate it and spread it and--”

“Let’s do it,” Jack replied, tightening his arms around Bittle. “If it means we get more Eric Bittles in hockey, then I’m in.”

 

“So far,” Dana, Jack's publicist, begins, “Everything is going swimmingly.”

“Swimmingly?” Bittle asks. They’re all arrayed around one of the heavy wooden conference tables, sipping on coffee.

“Well, as swimmingly as we can hope,” she amends. “In that no one on any of the major sports networks or blogs is being a complete dick about it, positive commentators far outnumber the negative, and no one’s received any credible death threats!”

“Is ‘dick’ a professional public relations term?” George questions, leaning back in her chair. “It was really only van Sant who made a veiled comment.”

“Well it’s hard to argue that a captain who’s led his team to two Stanley Cup victories isn’t fit to play the game, or is messing up locker room dynamics,” Dana says. “Added that to the fact that 96% of the Falconers invited to your wedding posted cute pictures on their various social media accounts, it’s clear you have your teammates’ support.”

“Has anyone gone after the 4% who didn’t post?” George asks.

“ESPN went through us to ask for a comment from Guy," Pedro, head of Falconers PR begins. "But it’s Guy. He never comments on anything. Or posts anything. Marco, Jerry, and Daniel’s agents have all been contacted asking for statements from them too, but no dice.”

“And seeing as I represent Jerry as well as Jack,” Jack’s agent, Paul, pipes up, “I can vouch that Jerry is not commenting not because he’s homophobic, but because he’s been in Nova Scotia since the wedding and his family’s place doesn’t have reliable internet. Kid has to drive into town and use the computers at the public library.”

“Marco and Daniel also know they’ll face Tater and Marty’s wrath if they tear down Jack in public,” George adds, frowning a little.

“So long story short,” Bittle says, his voice crisp and clear. “There’s nothing we need to be… worried about right now?”

“Like I said, hard for commentary nitwits to attack Jack on a skill or attention seeking level. There’s increased speculation about how this factored into Jack’s overdose, and some gossip sites are starting to dig up the old Kent Parson rumors, but otherwise it’s been overwhelmingly positive. But since the Falconers are obviously behind you, there’s not much else they can currently speculate about.”

“And thank you, for that,” Jack says to George and Pedro. “It’s been so much easier knowing that everyone here is behind us.”

“Of course, Jack,” George says, smiling. 

“So, what’s the next step?” Jack asks.

“Well you’re obviously the new face of You Can Play, like we agreed. You have a meeting with them on Tuesday to iron out the final details,” Dana says, passing Jack a stack of paper. “This is the contract. Legal’s already reviewed it, so go over it with your lawyer and get any changes or comments to me by Friday.

“As for what comes after that… I’ve made a PowerPoint,” Dana says, smiling wickedly. Next to Bittle, George quietly groans.

The PowerPoint is extremely detailed, just to Jack’s liking. 

“So the new You Can Play campaign will roll out at the end of August, and that’s when you’ll start your interview cycle,” Dana says. 

“First up is a solo interview for you, Jack. Five minute story on a Wednesday broadcast of Sports Center three weeks before regular season starts, with a full interview to be posted online. Sheri Montclaire is going to interview you. Then you’ll both fly off to Los Angeles for the requisite interview on Ellen. Which, when you guys go, please get me her autograph, because I’m kind of in love with her. I’d say I’d steal her from Portia, but then I’d feel like an awful homewrecker.”

“Who’s Portia?” asks Jack. 

Dana stops.

“Eric Bittle. You have been with this man for five years, educate him,”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Bittle says, smiling. “He’ll get a crash course when we get home.”

“Anyway. After Ellen, Jack will have a five minute interview on Hockey Night in Canada during the preseason. Topics will include the Falconers’ chances, your recent marriage, and your work for You Can Play. Make sure to hype You Can Play at every interview, actually.”

“Is Eric coming to any of the sports-related interviews?” Jack asks. “Holster says NBC and ESPN have been showing some of his old game tapes.”

Dana gives Jack a sympathetic look. “Not for any of the tv broadcasts, unfortunately. The interviews are supposed to emphasize that you’re still primarily a hockey player, and not exclusively an activist.”

“I’m an activist now?” Jack asks, surprised.

“Like I said. People will be dicks, and they’re going to say you’re shoving your homosexual relationship down their throats by simply existing. I know it’s not right, I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense, but it’ll be easier for everyone if you don’t do any sort of LGBTQ event that’s not exclusively NHL endorsed for the first few months. In another year you can go and accept your ESPY and all the GLAAD and HRC awards you want. But for now, remind people that you play hockey first.”

“She’s right, Jack,” Bittle says, patting his hand. “You’re just going to have to tap into your reserves of Zimmermann Charm.”

“I regret letting my dad tell you that story.”

“Speaking of your dad,” Georgia says. “Do we want him to do anything more? I know he issued that glowing statement about the wedding and about Eric.”

“Bad Bob got an instagram just to comment on wedding photos. He’s doing a great job,” Dana says, smiling. 

“So it’s just those three interviews?” Jack asks. That could be a lot worse.

“Just those three. Plus whatever the beat reporters ask after games once the season starts up,” Dana concludes. “We’re guessing interest in You Can Play events that you attend will spike, so there’ll probably be publicity around those.”

Jack thinks. He can handle interviews at You Can Play events. He can always direct personal questions back to the program. Same thing in post-game interviews-- he can always praise a teammate or redirect to a comment about the game. The three other interviews will be a challenge, but there are only three. And Bittle will be there for one of them, maybe two if he can swing it.

It can’t be that bad, right?

...

It’s that bad.

Jack manages to be eloquent enough in the three interviews Dana has set up for him. Bittle makes funny faces at him during the ESPN interview, so he talks enough, and gives the reporter enough material that it actually makes for a really good story on SportsCenter. 

He actually doesn’t have to talk too much on the Ellen one-- he says enough that people don’t make jokes about taking too many pucks to the head, assures the world that his parents have always embraced his sexuality, but mostly he just gets to smile as Bittle wins over Ellen and the entire studio audience. Apparently they’ve exchanged numbers and Jack and Bittle are invited to the beach house on the Cape Ellen and Portia are renting next summer.

Even Hockey Night in Canada isn’t that bad. Jack’s dad offers commentary for the show occasionally, so the reporter is sympathetic, even friendly. The story he produces is very flattering, and he even includes a short overview of all the Quebec social media reaction to his marriage. It’s mostly positive, and the show’s host even outright condemns the few negative quotes the reporter included. 

But then the season starts.

Their home opener is against the Devils. The Devils, to put it mildly, are shit. Their star forward is injured and their goalie was suspended from the league for one too many DUIs. They’re scoreless against the Falconer’s four goals going into the third period. 

It’s probably desperation, and it’s not like Jack’s never been called a faggot on the ice before. But now, when one of the Devils' wingers hurls it at him, accompanied by a just-barely-legal check, it feels different. Maybe it’s the sneer, maybe it’s how he can’t react, even though he wants to. 

So he pretends it doesn’t faze him, even though it’s obvious that it fazed Tater, who’s skating towards them, looking larger and angrier by the second. Jack allows himself one moment of enjoyment at the obvious terror spreading over the winger’s face before holding his arm out to stop his protective friend.

“Come on, Tater. It’s not worth it,” he says quietly, skating away and trying to drag Tater along with him. Tater shoots the winger one last look, but follows him.

They win 5-0, but the mood in the locker room is muted. 

“Zimmermann, it looks like you and Mashov had an altercation with Simmons in the third period. Do you want to comment?” a reporter asks.

Jack has a prepared answer for this. He’s practiced with Dana, George, and Bittle. 

He’s not fast enough. 

“Simmons tried to make himself feel big by slurring at Jack. Too bad his trash talk is as bad as his shots,” Tater interjects before Jack can answer.

“Did Simmons use a slur at you?” the reporter asks.

Jack breathes.

“Simmons expressed interest in volunteering with You Can Play. I was just taken aback that he wanted to talk about it on the clock,” Jack says, shrugging. 

The reporter looks like he doesn’t quite believe it, but moves on.

 

“That was actually very clever,” Bittle says later. They’re driving home from the arena, Bits in the driver’s seat. His right hand rests on the center console, Jack’s hand over his. “Now no one will call you a faggot unless they want to be publicly roped into You Can Play.”

“Well the non-answers I practiced with George and Dana wouldn’t work after Tater commented.” Jack frowns, staring out the window.

“I’m glad he’s got your back.”

“He doesn’t…” Jack starts, frustrated. “He doesn’t have to. It’s not his job. And I don’t need him fighting my battles on the ice, either.”

Bittle exhales through his teeth as they pull into their parking space in the garage. He turns the car off, gets out, and strides away, so fast that Jack can barely keep pace with him. The elevator ride up to their floor is thick with tension, and Jack knows that Bits is angry, is mustering up the nerve to confront him. 

“Jack Zimmermann. I know you want to prove something, but if you are anything other than grateful to Tater, I will probably slap you,” Bittle says as soon as the front door is closed. “Tater is your teammate and your friend. He stood up with you at our wedding, and he has your back on the ice and off.”

“I know, Bits, but he doesn’t have to, I just don’t want it to be a big deal, I--”

“It is a big deal. It was always going to be a big deal, and Lord knows I convinced you to make it a bigger deal than we should, but if everyone’s going to send you crashing into the glass while they’re calling you a faggot--”

“It’s one winger on a shitty team. And you didn’t--”

“If you won’t take care of yourself on the ice, I’m not going to rip into Tater for--”

“I signed up for this, I practiced for this, and then he--”

“Did you really, Jack?” Bitty asks, setting his hands on his hips. “Did you really sign up for people to shit on you more than they already do?”

“Bittle,” Jack starts. “What are you... crisse, of course I know, I just don’t need Tater to save me.”

“He’s not saving you, he’s looking out for you!” Bitty exclaims, starting to pace. “It’s what people who love each other do.”

“Bits, did someone say something to you at the game?” Jack asks, concerned. He takes a step towards his husband but Bitty continues his pacing, “If they did you have to tell me and I’ll--”

“You can’t go saying things like that about me and then brush off someone coming after you!”

“I’m not brushing it off! I’m--”

“You are brushing it off! That’s what you’ve been trying to do your whole life, and then--” Bittle cries. There are tears welling in his eyes. Whether they’re from sadness or anger, Jack can’t tell. 

“Are you worried that I’m going to need medication again, that I’m going to OD again? Is that where you think is going to fucking end? Because I didn’t feel pushed until we got home!” Jack yells, and regrets it immediately when Bittle lets out a choked sob.

“Bits, I--” Jack pleads, softly, but Bits is already pushing past him to stomp up the stairs, Jack sees him take a step towards the kitchen, but then he strides past it, and Jack hears their bedroom door slam shut. 

Left in their foyer, Jack toes off his shoes, walks up the stairs, and showers in the hallway bathroom, letting the hot water wash over him as he tries to clear his head.

He stays under the warm spray until his fingers are pruny, and reluctantly gets out. He towels himself off and, in the absence of any clean clothes, wraps the same towel around his waist. Slowly, he walks down the hall, and listens at their bedroom door. He doesn’t hear crying, or sniffing, and the light is on, so he takes a slow, tentative knock.

“It’s open,” comes Bittle’s small voice. 

Jack opens the door, and sees Bittle lying on his side of their bed, curled up under all the quilts and comforters. He’s probably clutching Senor Bun under the blankets, since the bunny isn’t on his usual perch on Bittle’s side table.

Jack walks over, trying to make his steps lighter, almost reverent. Reaching the bed, he kneels near Bittle’s head.

“I’m so sorry, Bits," he whispers. "I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not even true, and it’s definitely not fair, and I still said it.”

“Which part?” Bittle sniffs. Jack notices that his hair is damp, and that his skin is flushed, exactly how it looks when he’s just gotten out of a long shower.

“The last part. I don’t feel like I need the meds, and nothing you could do could ever push me there,” he puts one hand near where he guesses Bittle’s hands are under the blankets.

“What about--” here Bittle takes a deep breath. “What about things other people do because of me?”

“What other things? Is this about Simmons tonight?”

“You didn’t have to come out,” Bittle says, curling in on himself a little more. “We could have waited until you retired. Or you… We wouldn’t have had to stay together you wouldn’t have had to deal with all the interviews and all the hate other players are going to throw at you.”

“Bits,” Jack says, his heart breaking. His hand flies up to Bits’ face, pushing a stray lock of hair away from his forehead. “Did I… Did I give you the impression that I would leave if I thought it was too much? Oh Bits, I--”

“No, you didn’t!” Bittle exclaims, emerging from his cocoon slightly in alarm. “You never have I just… Don’t mock a man for his unreasonable fears.”

“It’s not unreasonable if there’s any part of you that thinks that may be true. Crisse, I’m so in love with you. And I will tell you every single day for the rest of our lives that you’re worth so much more than anything the press or other players can put me through,” Jack says, punctuating this statement with a kiss to Bittle’s forehead. “If I left you because I got tired of the coverage, or the speculation, or the insults, then I would be even less deserving of you than I already am. None of what we’ve done, none of it would mean anything if you left, Bits,” Jack finishes. It’s his turn to cry now.

“Oh, come here you,” Bittle says, flipping over on his back and patting the empty bed next to him. Jack gratefully throws the towel in the hamper, pulls on some clean boxers, and joins him.

“You never gave me the impression that you would leave me,” Bits says, his voice steadier now that Jack’s joined him under the covers. “I just… I asked you to do this really, really brave thing for me, and you could have said no, but you said yes, and there’s no way I can protect you or help you.”

“Bits, I can feel your death glares when someone checks me too hard,” Jack chuckles reaching one hand to brush away the moisture under Bittle’s eye. “I know you have my back. And I try to tell you how much it means just to be able to have you here with me, and I’ll work on it more, but god Bits, all of it’s a small price to pay to be able to be your husband. ”

“Jack, It’s different for you. We’re not linemates anymore, I can’t check anyone who calls you a faggot or give them a Bittle spin-o-rama,” Bittle whispers, placing a hand on Jack’s chest. “Our wedding has everyone talking about your overdose again, about your relationship with Kent, about how your dad is taking it… There’s just so much they can do, Jack, and what can I do? Bake pies at them?”

Jack takes Bittle into his arms, pulling him close. Bits nuzzles into his chest, and Jack hears him stifle another sob.

“When we first met, I don’t think I would have been able to handle much of it,” Jack starts. “But the Samwell team, Shitty, Lardo, the Falcs, you, have helped me grow and made me stronger and made me better. Five years ago, I might have spiraled with all of this, but I’m anchored now, Bits. And yeah, I try to brush off trash talk like Simmons tonight, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t bother me.” 

Jack takes a breath, and scoots back from Bittle so that he can look at his face. Bittle’s eyes are rimmed with red, and somehow the tears make his eyes seem even bigger. 

“I can focus on the game, I’ve always been good at that. But I pull my punches because uneventful games mean I can come home to you sooner. And we can come home and bake and talk about that assist I had in the second period, and not that I got into another fight. Or we can talk about Beyoncé’s latest instagram post or whatever show we’re bingeing,” Jack kisses Bittle on each of his swollen eyes. 

“If I come home with black eyes or a split lip from some guy calling me a faggot, then it’s a lot harder to leave at the rink. And it brings more drama home where neither of us want it to be.”

Jack kisses Bittle softly on the lips. 

“Does that make sense?” he asks.

Bittle sighs. “It does. I still feel helpless, though.”

“You can give repeat offenders all that Southern… side eye? Shade? In your vlogs,” Jack says, smiling at Bittle’s subsequent snort. It’s not quite a laugh, but it will do for now. “And I won’t get mad at Tater, if it makes you feel better.”

“It does. No need to drag Tater into our domestic disputes.”

“Heh, you’re right. I’m sorry, Bits.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Bitty says, closing his eyes as he figures out what to say next. “Just… Talk to me, okay? Let me know if it starts to get to be too much.”

“Of course. And you have to talk to me too, eh? If someone says something, or you’re upset about anything, I want to know.”

“Yeah. Okay,” Bittle says, exhaling. He blinks a couple of times, then looks back up at Jack. “Well. I think we just had our first major fight that didn’t end in one of us running through a rain storm. Marriage has already made us boring.”

Jack laughs, and pulls Bits closer so that he can bury his face in his clean hair.

...

“Jackabelle!” Shitty’s cries when Jack opens the door. “And how are you this fine October day?”

“Fine?” Jack hazards as Shitty steps inside. He looks like he’s just come from work, as he’s carrying his briefcase, computer bag, and, inexplicably, a duffel bag.

“Lardo can’t come home this weekend.” Shitty says. 

“Ah,” Jack says, understanding. “Your apartment feels empty?” Both Shitty and Lardo’s families live in the greater Boston area, and until recently both of them worked locally. Now, Lardo is getting a master’s degree in Art Business at Sotheby’s in New York. She and Shitty are doing long distance for a year and it’s been rough on both of them.

“You wouldn’t believe how empty it feels. Actually, you probably can. It’s why I’m here,” Shitty says, throwing his bags down by the door and kicking his shoes off. “Both of our lovers have moved on to bigger and better things.”

“At least I know mine has to come back,” Jack says, playfully elbowing Shitty. Bittle left for a three-week book tour two days ago, and Jack’s been feeling odd ever since. 

“Are you suggesting that I put a ring on it? Because just because I don’t indulge in every patriarchal---”

“I was talking about his pie tins. He’ll always come back for those,” Jack says, smiling. “And I know for a fact that you and Lardo both want to ‘put a ring on it.’”

“Alas, that we do. She’s even given me a timeline,” Shitty says, climbing the stairs and sauntering over to the refrigerator for a beer. “And sends me helpful links to vintage engagement rings on Etsy.”

“A timeline?” Jack asks, grabbing a beer for himself. He follows Shitty over to the couch.

“I’m to propose any time between the end of her first semester and the beginning of her third semester,” Shitty says, taking a swig of his beer. “I’m going to do it over her winter break, so that we have a couple of days to celebrate before she goes back to New York.”

“You pick a ring out?” Jack asks.

“Uh-huh. Kind of,” Shitty says. “Everyone on the Shitty side of the family wants me to use my great-aunt Theresa’s engagement ring. Her fiance died in a tragic accident before they could actually get married, but she never took the ring off, never married. She really liked me when I was a kid, so left me the ring,” Shitty says, rubbing his face. “And it is a really cool ring,” he adds, taking out his phone to show Jack a picture.

It’s actually a very cool looking ring. It looks old, the style is Art Deco, but it’s obviously been well cared for. Surprisingly, it isn’t all that gaudy. 

“I think Lardo will really like it,” Jack says, honestly. If he had to pick one word to describe it, Jack would be torn between “vintage” and “edgy.” 

“You think so? And it’s not like, too shitty?” Shitty asks.

“Unless you really hated your Aunt Theresa, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t use it.”

“Naw, Aunt Theresa was chill,” Shitty says, relaxing now as he reminisces. “She used to give me Christmas presents that were loud to annoy my grandmother.”

“Use it, then,” Jack says with a chuckle. “And talk about how much she’d have loved Lardo when you have to deal with your grandparents.”

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann, you are a genius,” Shitty says, taking a pull from his beer bottle. “Now, what are we going to watch tonight, and what kind of pizza are we ordering?”

 

“Hey there, sweetpea!” Bitty calls into the webcam. “Is Shitty still there?”

“Yes, I am!” Shitty calls from somewhere out of frame. “And that is a FINE, Bittle.”

“You come into MY HOUSE Shitty Knight. Fines are not applicable when I’m calling my husband sweetpea in my own home.”

“And when we’re not going to see each other in person for two and half weeks,” Jack adds. “You know how that feels, right, Shitty?”

“Aww Shitty, are you missing Lardo?” Bitty teases, and evil grin lighting up his face. “Is that why you’ve invaded my home and left your suit jacket thrown over my couch?”

“CAN’T A MAN MISS THE WOMAN HE’S GOING TO MARRY??” Shitty cries, but without heat.

“Oooh, can’t a man? I bet you’re really breaking down some heteronormative gender roles there, Shits,” Bits teases.

“Just talk to your husband, Bittle. He’s like a sad puppy. I am going to go call Lardo in the privacy of my own bedroom, like a civilized human.”

“You just don’t want her to fine you,” Jack points out as Shitty makes his way to the guest bedroom.

“How was the signing today?” Jack asks. Bitty is calling him from a generic looking hotel room in Chicago. 

“It went well! I met some followers who have been subscribing since I started this whole business back in high school,” Bittle says, beaming. “I also did a book talk before the signing, and the bookstore’s gonna post it online! Here, I’ll send you a link to the site.” 

“I’ll watch it with Shitty when we’re done,” Jack promises. 

“How long is he planning on hanging around? Not that I mind, I’m just concerned for his well being,” Bittle says.

“He’s just staying for the weekend. He’s headed back up to Boston Sunday after my game.”

Bittle nods. “Make sure you feed him something other than pizza.”

“I’ll do my best,” Jack laughs.

They talk for another hour, catching each other up on their days, and making plans to meet up in Los Angeles in a week and a half. Bittle managed to get his stop in Los Angeles to overlap with Jack’s game against the Kings, so they’ll be able to see each other there, however briefly.

They say their goodbyes when Shitty reappears, loudly asserting that it’s his turn with “our Jack.”

“I told Bits I’d watch the video of the book talk he did,” Jack says, clicking on the link to the store’s public Facebook page. He has Shitty login so they can watch it.

“Oh, this is a really great story,” Jack says as Bittle answers a question from the moderator about the strawberry shortcake recipe.

As he’s watching the video, comments and likes appear below it. Jack’s not really watching them at first, too focused on the comfortable way Bittle is sitting in his chair. 

And then a little angry face appears below the video, and Jack notices the comments. He pauses the video, and scrolls down.

“Jack, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Shitty says, but Jack isn’t listening. There’s one comment calling Bittle a fag, and there’s another from someone with a Chicago Blackhawks logo as their icon who says Bittle and “everyone like him” is ruining hockey. 

And then there’s someone wearing a Mashkov jersey in their profile picture who says Bittle has “ruined Jack Zimmermann.” It’s followed up by a threat. This guy is going to be waiting for Bittle in Atlanta. 

“Jack, I’m sure it’s-” Shitty begins, but Jack already has his phone out. 

“Jack?” comes Bittle’s sleepy voice after three rings. “I was just about to fall asleep, is everything okay?”

“Have you seen the Facebook comments on your videos?” Jack asks, shaking.

There’s silence on the other end of the line.

“Jack, didn’t Dana warn you not to look at comments?” Bittle says. Jack can hear the sheets on his hotel bed rustling as he sits up in bed.

“Bittle, there’s a guy wearing a Mashkov jersey who says he’s going to be waiting for you in Atlanta.”

“Sweetheart, the owner of the store is going to report them, there’s a very, very slim chance that anyone’s going to be waiting for me anywhere.”

“But there is some chance? Bits, if this is how people are reacting, then we need to do something different, we need--”

“Jack, none of this is new,” Bittle cuts in. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious in my vlogs. I’m a small boy who loves Beyoncé almost as much as I love baking. I’ve been getting those kind of comments for years.”

“But has anyone actually threatened you before?” Jack asks. 

“Well, no, but they’re probably not going to go through with it,” Bittle says. 

“Bits, what if--”

“There’s no good answer to this, Jack. I hate it as much as you do, believe me.”

“Can’t we call the cops?”

“Unless I’m getting threatened in person or through the mail, there’s not much they’ll do,” Bittle says. “Honey, I know it’s not what you want to hear, but nothing’s going to happen to me. I can’t promise it, but I’ll do everything I can to stay safe. Plus I’m pretty sure my followers would pounce on anyone who tried to hurt me,” Bittle assures. He still sounds tried, but his voice is steady.

Jack takes a deep breath.

“Alright. Just, try not to take any unnecessary risks, alright?”

“Alright, Mr. Zimmermann. Someone will always know where I am. Now let me get some sleep.”

“G’night, Bits. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

 

_Epilogue-- Nine Months Later_

“This is my husband, Eric,” Jack says, wrapping his arm around Eric’s waist and scooping him out of a conversation he’s having with Snowy’s fiancée Karen. They’re at the Falcs family cookout to welcome the rookies before the new season officially starts in eight weeks. 

“Nice to meet you, Eric,” Anton, one of the rookies says, extending his hand. Bittle takes it and gives it a firm shake. “What do you do?”

“He’s a New York Times bestselling author,” Jack cuts in before Bittle can say something modest like “Oh I run this little baking blog,” or “Oh I write cookbooks.”

“Did you hear that, guys?” comes Snowy’s voice. “Eric R. Bittle is a New York Times bestselling author.”

“But what about his James Beard Award? Don’t tell me Jack’s forgotten about the James Beard Award!” Marty adds.

“That’s a fine, Zimmermann!” Thirdy calls. 

“Double fine. You mention New York Times list again, then do not mention James Beard Award.” Tater chimes in, shaking his head. “Bee, is good thing your book sells so many copies, because Zimmboni wasting so much money on fines.”

“Ignore them,” Bittle says to Anton, his cheeks flushing.

“Anton,” Marty begins very seriously, slapping his hand on the rookie’s shoulder. “We all love Jack. And we love Eric even more. Eric wrote a cookbook last year and it did really well and won a bunch of industry awards. But Zimmboni has been talking about it every week since November.”

“At first we thought ‘What’s the harm? They’re still technically newlyweds,’” Thirdy says.

“But then he wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it. And they’ve been married for a year and still haven’t left the honeymoon phase.” Snowy finishes. 

“You’re just upset because Jack and Eric have set a high bar for you to measure up to,” Karen cuts in. “And don’t chirp him anymore, or he’ll think twice about giving me preserves to take home to my mom next month.”

“That’s the other thing you need to know,” Snowy tells Anton solemnly. “Bittle makes the best everything. Period. Full stop. Be nice to him and he’ll bake you things.”

“If y’all don’t stop scaring this poor rookie, I won’t bake any nook pies for a week,” Bittle swears. Everyone apologizes meekly and disperses. 

“So you’ve only been married a year? How did you guys meet?” Anton asks.

Jack and Bittle look at each other, smile, and turn to face Anton. Looping their arms around each other’s waists, Bittle begins to speak. 

“Well, it all started when he was a total jerk…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the idea for how Bitty and Jack come out from the Boston Bruins Summer Selfies series, so shout out to the Bruins PR team! Also, I do not own Buzzfeed or Check Please. And I sincerely apologize to the New Jersey.


End file.
